will and wont

Alli’s fingernails will have dumbed themselves down to rigid clubs by the time she’s trapped and told to straighten out. Her attempts to claw through locked doors will bring about the realization that she’s made herself helpless.

“We want what’s best for you,” a hired gun promises as everyone else stares at their feet. “We’re here because we care.”

Alli’s going to watch the stranger’s mouth move and skip over every other word they say. The floor is too thick to escape through, the ceiling too high.

“I want to trust you,” her pregnant sister adds, “be somebody new.”

Alli will roll over, take the bait, and spend time locked in a box full of whining and contempt. This will be her sixth repetition. Her physical body proves capable of making itself over from the inside out while the rest of her will stay the same.

“We can’t wait to see you,” her sister chimes through the phone, months past Alli’s captivity. “You’ll be ok overnight?”

“Should be. Anything I might bring?”

“Just your sweet self.”

There’s quiet until her newborn daughter chirps.

“She says, bring your guitar, please!”

Laughter occurs, followed by I love yous and goodbyes.

Alli will pull her old acoustic guitar from the closet and change the strings. But her sharp nails get in the way, having grown out due to a lack of exogenous poison.

The high E string is going to snap three times. Weekend packing will interrupt the frustration and force Alli to consider what clothes a baby might like to look at. She’ll bite her nails to the quick with anticipation. They bleed and she’ll fall asleep with her hands tucked under the pillow. She dreams of trying to outrun the rain.

“Thanks for staying over,” sister kisses Alli’s cheek. “Mom forgot to tell me she’d be travelling, and the funeral’s going to be rough.”

Alli will find herself unable to recall which of her brother-in-law’s family members died, but knows she never met them.

“You remember how drunk she got at the wedding? He says it was like that all the time.”

Apparently, they’d met. Alli’s wont to doubt that the deceased would’ve remembered her, either. On another plane, one that only scum like them know about, they shake each other’s dry, rigid hands for ten years straight.

“We’re just putting in an appearance,” her sister continues, “back by tomorrow afternoon.”

Her niece is already sleeping, perfect in her swaddle.

“Call us if there’s any trouble,” sister’s eyes are cut with deep ruts of distrust.

Alli’s going to smile and put her arms out for a hug. “We’ll be great. We’ll sing breakfast songs.”

Sister sees the overgrown nails. “Cut those. Or put on gloves. There’s some by the door.”

Alli mechanically gives a thumbs-up before the two go over the rules and plans and baby’s needs four more times. Sister doesn’t make eye contact when she says goodbye, preoccupied with Alli’s fingers.

Luckily for sister, nerves won’t slow themselves from chewing Alli’s nails into harmlessness, as habit compulsively peeks into baby’s room.

“She’ll keep sleeping.” Fixation compels Alli to gnaw her thumbs and cut her tongue and check again. “She’ll keep sleeping.”

Unwelcome visions crowd in, fears of baby falling; hitting her head; knotting the swaddle around her neck; choking on spit; crying silently and swallowing her tongue; rolling on her side and forgetting to breathe; freeing her arms and breaking her nose; twisting a leg; dying suddenly, mid-dream. Alli will chew her nails until nothing’s left and get blood on the milk packets while she counts them.

She’ll hallucinate cries and snap her head up fast enough to rip her cuticles. Gloves will be donned and scab fibers to her skin. After she checks her niece one more time, Alli will close the door and sleep on the floor outside her room.

Because the niece is perfect, she sleeps until exactly six. She coos, then whines, until she cries. Alli’s destined to rub open her eyes and cut fine slits into her lids.

“The nails always grow back—”

The blood gets dotted with a palm.

“I’ll start chewing,” gloves come off and the door opens.

“It’s still me, sweetie,” she’ll sing through a mouthful of craggy fingernails. “I’ll get your diaper ready.” The baby doesn’t understand and watches Alli struggle with the packaging. Her nails will tear through the plastic and ruin three diapers, leaving her to stare at the fragile, terrified infant. Baby’s eyes turn red with distress.

“Hello?”

A voice shocks Alli and spins her to find the source.

“What’re you doing?”

Sister’s hidden a camera.

“The baby should be changed,” Alli will reply, forgetting to hide her hands, “after I finish fighting with the bag.”

“She’s been crying for fifteen minutes,” sister says. “We’re coming home.”

“Do not, no,”

Sister spies her nails. “I told you to cut those. We’ll be back in a half hour.”

She hangs up. The baby wails at her aunt’s horrific fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Alli won’t be able to stop herself from crying.

The niece screams louder, and Alli’s fated to sit and bear the sound until the front door opens.

Sister marches past without saying hello. Alli will stand, collect her things, and leave. Sister never asks her back and mother cancels the rest of her trips. Whenever Alli goes to play her five-stringed guitar, daggers bitten down, she will forget every song she used to know.

Her nails will ruin the nicer things in her home. They’ll destroy her face, too. Every morning her heart races, visions will worry her sick, and she’ll chew until she bleeds. In Alli’s dreams, someone who looks just like her outruns the rain.