The original version of this flash piece was published in ‘New Series:
Departures’ an Irish literary journal, after which, rights reverted to
the author.
Nails By Penny Pepper
The young woman twisted Lyn’s hand to reach her little finger.
Lyn didn’t flinch. She was trained to not show emotion and besides, the nail bar floated in a familiar chemical cloud that gave her a sense of comfort.
‘You good today?’ The nail technician didn’t look up. Sometimes Lyn didn’t realise she was talking to her, the heavy accent redolent of another sunnier life far from the grimy North London drizzle.
On the wall, a calendar hung at a crooked angle. Lyn wondered at the oriental lettering.
The drill whirred. Home intruded into her head. The smell of fast food, her mother’s cheap perfume and haranguing voice.
‘Length good?’ the young woman asked with a soft smile, gesturing to Lyn’s nail.
‘Sharper. Pointed.’
The woman nodded.
The process took 40 minutes and was a pleasure Lyn would not give up. Despite the protestations at home. Even the beatings. She could withstand them while she must.
Whores nails. Mother said that. What do you want them for? You was emphasised. You’re useless, she laughed. You can’t even be a real woman let alone a whore.
‘Better?’ Lyn’s nail was held up again for inspection. The filing drill had done its work and the end was almost a point. Almost was not enough.
‘A bit more please,’ she was tentative. The technicians might be taciturn but they resisted anything that might make the nails dangerous. ‘You hurt you self’, they would say haltingly.
‘It’s for a special occasion,’ Lyn blurted. ‘A party.’
‘Oh party!’ The woman grinned. ‘OK I do more, but you be careful.’
Lyn shifted. An image of her long acrylic nail sliding between her legs, slipping between soft moist lips shook thoughts of a lonely pleasure over her skin. With great effort, she pushed it away, face burning.
The nail polishing was fast in comparison. She chose black. Plain, slick. The points on the nails felt satisfying, and she would file more as best she could on the way home.
Mother was at the table, jabbing cigarettes into her food. Lyn’s stomach turned at the uneaten fried egg brutalised by the butts.
Two empty wine bottles crowded against a cooling greasy burger.
‘Fuck, you were a long time. You’ll have to have the dinner cold.’ The woman didn’t move, merely waved a fresh cigarette towards the burger.
Lyn came up behind her mother slowly. She took in a long breath.
Could it really be this easy? Was mother drunk enough? Had the exercises worked?
All that weight training in the rehab gym to get even a basic strength in her arms.
One, two…three. Lyn moved forward, leaned and plunged the nails into her mother’s throat. The points, sharp as claws, slipped into something. The something became wet very fast.
The older woman made a surprised gurgling noise and began to writhe. Lyn kept her nails dug in deep.
Her mother clawed at her hands. But the nails were embedded. It was warm and soft, slippery, a lot of blood.
The woman slumped at last. Lyn kept still, for some minutes, occasionally bending her fingers in the gore with a satisfying smile.
Eventually she eased herself away. The long pointed nails were caked with congealing blood, the black polish now slick with clotting red.
With a delicate movement, she wiped her hands on the filthy table cloth, clicked a button and moved her wheelchair to the phone.
She wondered if the police would admire her lovely sharp nails.