Nailed It

Read time: 2 mins

Content warning: mild self-harm

“How’d you grow your nails so long?” an overexcited restaurant server had asked three months ago.

Judith hadn’t noticed her fingernails’ length until that comment. She’d previously kept them short to counteract her tendency to claw her own skin during tense moments. Upon reflection, she realized she’d inexplicably had fewer such moments lately, which evidently translated into losing awareness of her nails.

The unexpected surge of pride from having a comparative stranger notice had reawakened that awareness in an equal and opposite form.

She’d had no reason to worry about shape before, so long as she achieved safety. Now artistry had entered the equation. Clipping now had became as much a deliberate shaping ritual as topiary. Anything less than a perfect almond nagged like having a hair in her eye. The file, never touched before, had become an invaluable magic eraser. She’d even started applying clear nail varnish to preserve and showcase her work.

Now she had to sit through another potluck at work, the fifth one that quarter. Her boss’s pre-meal speech drew eyerolls from even his most ardent sycophants.

“I know you’d all rather I celebrate your hard work by giving you a raise. I’ve also heard the feedback that it’s not celebrating you if I require you all to prepare and deliver the food yourselves. However, I think you can all admit that this brings you much closer together through mutual effort, which is what work’s really about. In that spirit, why don’t we go round the room and you each tell a story about the dish you brought before we eat. “

Judith realized she was running the tips of her right nails along her left arm. She consciously felt the mild scratching that gave her something to focus on besides the droning of an overpaid idiot. It only took a slightly harder press to force out the words of her own fabricated “food narrative.” The sensation ceased as soon as she removed her nails from her arm.

She didn’t realize she’d broken the skin until she excused herself to the restroom for a few minutes to breathe. She still wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t tried to ground by assessing her reflection. Three pencil-thin red lines ran from her elbow halfway to her wrist. The wounds had already scabbed over.

This result should have bothered her, and she did faintly realize she’d have to stay more careful about indulging her favorite stim going forward. Mostly, though, she just grinned at the realization of what her new nails could do.

She sauntered back to the Conference Room, slipping silently through the door to embody the clawed cat she was now. The cold food tasted better with her nails clicking on the plastic cutlery.