Regret

4. But You Are Not Your Mistakes,

You can learn a lot from someone's hands.

The way they flaunt them, their nails and how much stuff are underneath them, if they have scars or tattoos or calluses dancing across their knuckles or palms.

The difference between two peoples hands can range so greatly.

One person can have long, bony fingers that pop loud whenever they're under pressure. And another person from the same bloodline can have short hands with short fingers, decorated with the prettiest color across their thin nails.

Take the man's hands as his fingers were copied of their print as he sat in a stiff, metal chair staring at the cop in charge of him.

His hands were boxy with slightly chubby fingers sitting at the end. They weren't rough, nor were they smooth. They pop when he gets nervous, which was a lot lately, and they get  stiff in the winter although he doesn't want to believe he's getting old.

His index finger has pointed out his favorite candy amongst others to alert his mom which kind he wanted.

His index finger has pointed at a white board to point something out to his least favorite teacher that he swore was out to get him.

And his index finger has been stained black as his print has been copied, pointing out that he committed a serious crime that would haunt him, and other people, for the rest of his life.

Take the girls hands as she sat down with the first picture of the growing life inside her belly.

Her hands were slender, although the same size of his. They were smooth, and it wasn't because she put on a load of lotion. They don't pop when she gets nervous, although she's definitely put the adequate amount of pressure on them, and they sometimes get painted when she has to go someplace fancy; although for the last mouth or so they have sat plain with no intention of ever being painted.

Her index finger has been laced with her dad's as they skip down the sidewalk to their small house on the corner of the street.

Her index finger has been nervously laced with her first boyfriends, giggling as he kissed her on the cheek.

And her index finger has reached for the boy who rushed over when he heard the news, tangling their hands together as she started to cry, handing him over the picture.

Take the man's hands and he reached over and grabbed the photo gently.

This man's hands were long, but not as boxy nor as slender. They were thin and strong, slightly callused from the work that he did all day long before rushing to her house. They don't pop, but his knuckles are big all the same; and sometimes, after a long day's work, a little layer of dirt would get stuck under his round fingernails.

His index finger has been wrapped around his mom's neck as his small frame relied on her for everything.

His index finger has been wrapped around his dog's neck after they played in the sun all day

And his index finger has been wrapped around her neck, clutching tightly with the picture in the other hand.

The t-shirts on their bodies started to get wet as they clung together. The very tips of their fingers white from holding each other too hard.

His fingertips were turning white too, but it wasn't because he was caught in a loving embrace.

His hands were wrapped around the metal bars that trapped him here; his own personal cage. As the door was slammed shut, he suddenly got an explosion of rage, and his fingertips turned that same shade of white as he exerted his anger.

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A/N:

This is definitely my favorite chapter out of the whole book!