POV: You're Trapped in a Basement

When I was seven my mother cut off my pinkie. Most people think that pinkies are useless, that they are simply there to be the smallest finger, to close up the perfect image of a hand. That they are to be lifted upright when drinking a cup of tea or to seem fancy. After I lost the one on my right hand I learned just how important they were. 

They are an integral part of the hand. They pair with the ring finger to allow more power while the other fingers and thumb allow for dexterity. Without the pinkie the hand loses fifty percent of its strength. 

But I’m sure you don’t care about that. You’re wondering why my mother would do such a thing. I used to think it was because she was crazy, a part of me still thinks that. But I understand her better now, if only a little. In her own twisted way she was trying to protect me and those around me. It was a warning for me to stop stepping out of line.

Our neighbor had heard my screams and panicked pleas for my mother to stop. I can still see her face. Her eyes wide and so close to my face that the pupils were crazed dots and the irises a dark gray. Her hair was a wild splay of springy curls. I remember thinking that she was always beautiful, my mother. I wanted to look like her. I had the same hair but I had gotten nothing for her beauty, nothing of that strong jaw and those intense eyes. 

Most people tell me I’m dull looking, not ugly but dull, forgettable. Do you think I look forgettable? Am I so boring? Will you forget me too? Will it be a slow forgetting like how you drift apart with friends you used to cling to? Or, will it be quick and easy, an image plucked out of your head and discarded?

Our neighbor took me in while my mother was dragged away. My mother’s screams were horrible, all throaty and desperate for her baby. She wanted her baby back but her baby hated her.

For a long time I hated her. Who was she to call out to me and act as though she was the one hurting? I had been the one hurt, this was about my pain, not hers. She’d injured me in cold blood and then had the nerve to call out to me.

People don’t always notice when you’re missing a finger. They see your hand and they see something is off but it usually takes some time for them to put the pieces together. It’s funny...how many didn’t notice until a second or even third glance with narrowed eyes trying to act like they weren’t staring. I used to lie, say I was born without it to avoid the looks of pity and the shock on people’s faces. 

I would often put on gloves just to watch the pinkie flop backwards or forwards. And then I’d stare at it as if willing it to come back up. 

Our neighbor didn’t understand why my mother had behaved so poorly. When I crept into her room, she understood why.

It wasn’t her fault for being scared, my mother had never told her, had never told anyone and I’d never looked different, not in front of others. I was not a girl then, not a girl in the sense that she understood it. The image of ribbons and frocks and shades of pink. I was not that. I was something else.

You see it, don’t you? I didn’t mean for you to see it. I didn’t mean for her to see it either, it’s just so hard to hold back sometimes. How do I explain it to you? Oh, don’t be sad now, it won’t hurt much. It never hurts, I make sure of it. 

Our neighbor saw my elongated body, pale and white with blue and red veins visible on my leathery skin. My mouth a long slit up the side of my face, pink and yearning with rows upon rows of little teeth. My back hunched forward. I, on all fours, the fingers stretched in the same manner of my body, the nails sharp and unkempt but desperate to be used. 

I take care of them now. Do you like them? I thought to paint them a different color earlier, add a bit of pop. People don’t really notice the effort I put in. Most ignore it in favor of panicked yells but you noticed. I’ll tell you a secret, that’s why you’re still my favorite.

Do you like the flower in my hair? It’s called an orchid, it comes in pink and purple and sometimes orange. I’m talking too much again, aren’t I? 

Oh, well I’m glad you enjoy it. 

No, I wasn’t aware they came in white. Would you like to touch it? Come closer.

Flash Issue 12