The Fingers

The Fingering

My aunt hasn't texted me anything but the situation regarding the broken oven this morning. In fifth period, I glance at my phone to see no new messages from anyone. That's usual for someone like me.

I don't have that many friends. The ones I do have, I don't text them often because we hang out so much. No one blows up my phone, except for my mother when I've been gone too long, so I decide on one thing.

I'm going to go to my aunt's house and help her clean up. Since my cousin is still at the hospital, and my aunt is still at my grandmother's house, I can just show up uninvited. No one there, no one to stop me.

While the school bus would easily take me there, I decided I would walk. It's a nice February day, with the sun shining brightly on me. I hold my empty Monster energy can in my hand, waiting until I pass by the mall to recycle the can. The butterfly flavour didn't give me any wings, but it wasn't Redbull, so I had no right to complain.

There's something so therapeutic about walking. Even though I just got my driver's permit, I don't desire to drive with anyone. No, I want to get out on the sidewalks (or lack thereof) and experience the weather for myself.

When I show up at my aunt's apartment building, I open the outer door only to find the inner door knocked down. I begin to panic, listening closely to see if I can hear any sounds.

My cousin's wrath was something I did NOT want to incur. After the borderline verbal abuse he so politely vomited onto me last Christmas, I have refused to speak with him, knowing I would say something regretful. I'm pretty sure it was an unspoken rule that I was not supposed to come here again.

I walk up the stairs ever so softly, my feet on the carpet the only noise in the silent apartment. When I made it to the top step, nothing seemed out of the ordinary until I tiptoed to the oven.

The safety glass had been safely swept away and into a garbage bag, but inside the hole of the oven was a concerning amount of dried blood, and what looked to be an old piece of food. I picked it up to get a closer look at it, only to recoil when I saw what it really was.

A finger. A severed human finger. My body starts shaking. What the hell happened here?

Curiosity killed the cat, so I picked it up again, examining it thoroughly. There was no doubt in my mind. I knew who this finger belonged to.

My cousin always had disgustingly blunt nail biter nails and dry skin. While the finger I held in my hand seemed a little burnt and blistered, there was no way this wasn't his.

Was it ripped off when he bent the handle? Or was it chopped off by him in a fit of rage? I wasn't there, so I'll never know. The only thing I do know is that I'm holding a finger in my hand. And that my finger prints are all over it.

Most people panic when they see a human finger. Whether or not it was the results of the energy drink, I'll never know, but I put the finger in my mouth and swallow it whole. The skin is so dry and flaky it threatens to come off in my mouth. I almost choke and vomit, but manage to get it down with a little water.

The second I did that, I knew I made a horrible mistake, I fall to the ground, clutching my stomach. *Why did I EAT that?*  It wasn't so much nausea as this feeling of evil running through my veins.

I didn't think anything would happen by eating that finger.