Fingers, part 2.

It’s a natural mutation, he said. Shit happens, nature can be cruel. It’s part of what makes me unique, and now I don’t even notice it.

Do you notice it yet? Shine your torch a little to the left. It’s on a sheet of last week’s sport with the cheap gold band still gripping to the ragged sinews. The nail is perhaps protruding as the cuticle peels back.

Don’t look so horrified, I told you- you’re late.

Uniqueness? I said to him that it had to go.

He laughed until I got out the chisel.

I made him put his left hand flat against the table top, then bam.

He collapsed on the floorboards howling. In pain, not forgiveness. He should have been thanking me for setting him free.

You’ll find him in the corner, the chisel still in place. No finger prints on it, mind, I remembered the latex gloves. Watch out for those nice shoes, blood stains you know.

Yeah, you can see him now.

Don’t rush, you might startle him. Steady, steady.You look onto the pale skin, vulnerable and soft. The scruff of black hair, matting slightly around his sticky crimson ears. His eyes, so blue, so soft. You could probably fall in love with him, that’d be a story to tell wouldn’t it?

I tossed him aside, nothing more than a big meaty rag doll. I told you, it’s your fault. You’re late.

Why don’t you count his fingers, curled into fists at his chest?

This is where you can write ‘motive’ in your note book. That’s right, he still has ten. The sixth on the left never really belonged to him. But, and this is the only thing we have in common, I was too late to save him too.