I went into the bathroom to remove the dark red nail polish that had chipped into islands on my fingernails. I have small nail beds, two crooked fingers, and a double-jointed thumb. My father wished that I would never have hands like his. As I rubbed a cotton ball on each nail my fingertips became stained the harshest red. I painted my nails dark purple to cover up the red streaks that were painful to look at, as if I had dipped my hands into the scene of some crime.

I walked into the other rooms, swinging my hands, blowing on them gently. I listened to the length of my own exhales. Spring light entered through the window and receded with a passing cloud. I moved some dirt around with my feet and could feel crumbs stick to my socks. The slightly open window caused a cobweb to shake but remain fixed in the corner of the windowsill. I saw it there at the center, small, dark, and unmoving. I intended for it to go freely out the window it came in from as I reached down to remove the cobweb. Dust bothers me more than any other kind of filth in a home. My mother hated dirty dishes. I could never leave just one in the sink for any amount of time. 

My nails were not yet dry and the dust clung to my wet fingertips. I violently shook my hand and let out a cry.

You entered and asked if I was alright, and what happened? You scanned the floor to see if something broke, if I appeared injured at all. You hate when things are moved out of their proper place. Your father kept a detailed household inventory. Only he could determine if an object could be moved someplace else or thrown away. To avoid further strife, I said, I’m okay, and hid my ruined hand behind my back. 

But you reached for it, thinking that I was hiding something from you. A cracked heirloom or money from your wallet. Was I trying to tease you? Replay some game from your childhood? I wasn’t going to surrender. I longed for refuge. I struggled and fell to the floor with my hand beneath my back. You turned me over, my hand against the small of my back, purple smears decorated my clothing.

I could feel the wood floorboard dampen from the sweat off my face. What next? What now? My friends hate that I don’t speak up for myself, that I often fall silent, but they rarely say anything with meaning when their mouths make so much sound. 

A future beyond here was unimaginable. Maybe you stared at me for a few hours, maybe it was only a minute. Did you leave and come back? You uncurled my stiff fingers like a mortician arranging the fingers of a cadaver. A spider emerged from my palm.

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