Nail Varnish

The once clear varnish has turned the colour of toenails, chalky and yellowed. And if she were to open it, tugging on the shiny black cap that is stuck and extract the brush moulded into an eyelash, it would hang, suspended in an infinite tear. She doesn't pick it up, but she knows if she did, slipping it carelessly into her palm, it would leave behind a perfect circle in the dust.

She sinks into the settee her eyes remaining on the bottle with the black lid, obscuring the DVD's on button. She stretches out her hands and examines the red ragged edges of her fingers, the nails chewed beyond the quick. She spies a tiny shred of skin, halfway down the outside of her thumb. She gets it between her teeth and jerks her head back. Her eyes water a little as thin blood wells, filling the outer rim. She brings it back to her lips and nibbles at the sodden edge of the nail, the bed, bruise tender, like sunburn.

She stares at the bottle, her fingers play in her lap. When she had needed it to strengthen her nails that were a perpetual impulse away from her mouth, it was never there. And she would turn and sigh shoving her hand down the side of the sofa, or curse, hands on hips as she saw it resting on a book, the front cover swaying, the lid cocked to one side, prompting a tirade. "One small knock and it would have spilt, bloody ridiculous, do you not think¦? I despair sometimes I really do¦, have you ever tried to get nail varnish out of a carpet?

It is still there.

Closing her eyes she brings her hands up to her ears, pressing, until her skull creaks and she can hear nothing but gurgling and roaring, beating and pulsing. She draws her knees under her chin and rocks. Back and forth, back and forth¦

She walks into the lounge. Lets out a loud sigh. Lifts the cushion. Runs her hand down the edge. Pulls out a hairbrush, a bracelet, a bobble. She drops to her knees searching, picking up a glass, lying on its side, distastefully sticky between her fingers. She switches off the straighteners, shaking her head, her knee cracking as she stands and turns towards the hall. She tuts, spit flying from her lips, the pink mobile vibrating in the middle of the floor and screams with burdened breath. Amy!

Over and over and over...

Her voice dies, grit rolls under her eyelids. She opens them to a squint. Focus returns.

It is still there¦

¦the colour of toenails, chalky and yellowed. And if she were to open it¦