Nail Polish

by Sarah Everett

 

[Editor’s Note: This piece is part of the “Topical” series, with each piece solely submitted to and chosen by the Final Reader Pietra Dunmore.]

 

Nothing has the power to hypnotize me more than a bottle of candy apple nail polish. I stare at the vials, suffused with vibrant wild flowers and the colorful feathers of exotic birds – my eyes glittering from the florescent lights that illuminate the cosmetics counter. Being in their presence is like catching that ever-elusive rainbow, and it never fails to mesmerize my eight-year-old brain.

I suspect it’s the reason my mother favors this checkout lane, even though I pretend not to understand that. While she tries to pacify the cashier, I ogle the polymers and lie about overhearing each derogatory insult thrown at me when probed about it later.

“It happened again, today.” My mother dumps our groceries on the kitchen counter, squashing a loaf of pumpernickel in the process. The wrinkles in her forehead deepen when she scrunches her nose, each line a scar earned from the trenches of motherhood.

My father casts his eyes in my direction before saying, “lower your voice Mina. We don’t want the neighbors to overhear.” He purses his lips while my mother clicks her tongue. She twirls around and whips out a paring knife, cutting into an onion to disguise her tears.

My father sighs and places his gnarled hand on her shoulder. It’s just as twisted and bent as our wooden paneling – the same as his back, his feet, and his legs. He pretends his bone-shattering career isn’t the cause of his mangled body, and I pretend I’m not the reason he can’t find a better job. “Perhaps it’s time to move again.”

My mother spins around, brandishing the cooking utensil like a cutlass. She opens her mouth to expunge an argument, but a knock at the door interrupts her. “Can’t they leave us alone for one night?” she yells.

My father shushes her and shoos me into the adjacent room. The walls are as thin as cardboard, though; and despite his efforts, I overhear everything.

“No one would blame you if you tried again.” I envision the dark-haired man lurking beneath our eve – the same one that comes here every night like clockwork. He is short and thin, with a crooked nose that’s been broken more times than I can count. “After we destroy her paperwork,” he says. “No one will know she ever existed. The one-child edict won’t apply to you anymore.”

“We’re not interested,” my father snarls.

“Think of your country. She’ll never be able to hold a job. Never marry. She’ll be a burden on society until the day she dies.”

A pause. A long lapse in sound that is gut-wrenching. In this silence, I lower my eyes to the two deformed stumps I have in place of hands and wonder why people hate me for them. I’m just as intelligent as any other eight-year-old. I eat the same food and dress the same way. The only thing I can’t do is dip my fingers in a bottle of nail polish because…well…I have no nails to paint. My dark thoughts swirl inside my head like a raging sea, ready to drown me, until a sharp bark banishes them.

“You won’t be able to protect her forever. Eventually, you’ll have to surrender her.”

The door slams and our house flinches. A teacup sitting too close to the table’s edge takes a plunge and shatters into dust. My father stomps back into the kitchen, his waxen face flushed purple with rage.

“Why do people want me gone?” My voice is pitchy like a squeaky desk drawer and it draws my parents to me.

“They just don’t understand you,” my mother says, unable to hide her tears this time. “People have always been wary of those that aren’t like themselves. It’s not your fault.”

“Your mother’s right. You just have to–”

Another knock disturbs our conversation and my ears perk up. The men only ever come once a night, so I’m interested to see who is at the door. My father doesn’t share my curiosity. He approaches the threshold cautiously, latching the chain lock before prying the wood open a crack. “Yes?”

The twisted lumber explodes inward and strikes my father’s face with a sickening crunch. He stumbles backwards as a woman overtakes the entryway and points a long, metal tube at the center of my chest. “I’m sick of you hiding her.” She pulls the trigger and another explosion makes my ears zing.

I don’t recoil because I don’t understand why my father looks so pale. He punches the woman square in the eye and she hits the ground the same time my mother does. A few grey hairs escape her bun and obscure the haunting smile on her lips. Below her, a pool of red stains the carpet, like someone spilt an entire bottle of candy apple nail polish.

 

Sarah Everett is an aspiring author who’s recently appeared in The Bookends Review, Castabout Art & Lit, and the Dead Mule School for Southern Literature. If she isn’t chained to her computer (either writing or drawing) she’s seeking inspiration in the woods or watching a good movie with her disgruntled cat.

 

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