Impatient

She didn’t bite her nails anymore.

At some point of her life she started to bite her cuticles and soon every object around her had bite marks of any morphology to expose. Now, she got into the bad habit of chewing the fingers of her left hand.

She didn’t eat her own flesh, not in a grotesque, bloody way. She waited with patient, next to the door and the telephone, tasting slowly the soft muscles and where the bone makes the articulation hard. The sensation was rubbery. She had not visible scars, but at the careful look on the skin they were visible, and looked like small, irregular mountains.

With the right hand she destroyed everything near her. She had gifted herself a pen, that it had entertained her for several weeks, making circle after circle in the notebooks. She always had a paper nearly because she knew she would need to take one or two notes when he finally comes. It wasn’t always a notebook. Sometimes it was a bill, already paid, which found its end quickly by the destructive power of the hand. Later that week, she would decide that the brief life of the papers was counter-productive and then she would arrange stacks of well-cut cardboards. They were so useful to her right hand that, because of its longevity, she thought that she would never get bored.

Sometimes she gets tired of waiting.

It is her main job, to wait hour after hour, but every now and then she decides to take some minutes off, to look into the garbage binds for empty boxes of electrodomestics. Sometimes inside of the boxes awaited an even bigger treasure: Bubble wraps.

So her hands could take a rest for an hour or two.

And when she looks at herself in the mirror, she gets a panic attack. Her red hair locks, dried, her inexistent nails, her destroyed hands, the attacked skin of her legs, her scratched freckles, her bitted lips. When he finally comes, what would he think of her, looking like this, like a sketch of what she was? she tried to arrange herself, without success. It would work like a short-term solution; she would look less like herself, like she never waited.

But the façade lasted only a few minutes and soon she was biting her fingers again, hating the taste of the red nail polish, getting stains from the lipstick. And she would think, why, anyway? He won’t come. He won’t come. It is not good to have negative thoughts, so she waits.

But he won’t come.

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