1. Sit on the cold toilet lid. Leave the lights off. You know that ugliness softens in the dark. Besides, you’ve done this enough to know where the blade bites the deepest. Let your thumb caress the curve of your nail. Count the ridges, one for every year he was gone.
She calls us 아픈 손가락. The aching fingers.
But she forgets. We are not fingers. Fingers heal in the open.
We grew in the dark, wrapped in cotton-thick silence.
Nails curling, digging into the boundaries of the skin.
Inheritance. It only hurts more when ignored.
2. Get the nail clipper.
No, not the pristine 4.7-rated one from Amazon. It doesn’t know anything.
Find the one he used. The one you kept despite rust creeping in the hinges. The one dangling absurdly from the frayed red lanyard. He kept it like that so you’ll never lose it.
You should probably use the clean one.
But how can you ignore the rust and the lanyard?
The red.
They are the same color as your dried resentment.
3. Angle the clipper against your natural curve. They say it prevents ingrowns. But you don’t know if that’s true. What you do know is the pain. The sharp, throbbing heat of the rebellious nail carving into you.
You learned it young. Hurt that comes from within lingers. Family does that. Burrowing where it belongs, part of your body, part of your ache.
4. Now clip.
The crackling of the nail. You never get used to it. Even with the trash can waiting patiently under you, the nail rebels. Flying, ricocheting off the tiled floor.
A small crescent moon. A waning presence that you could almost store. You’ll hear it land without knowing where.
Don’t be curious. It left on its own accord.
5. Continue cutting.
Maneuver around thick areas that resist the blades like memories distorted by hindsight. His Christmas-morning smile. A promising bright wrapper stretched over nothing.
Use both hands if you have to.
Dig until you find where skin meets the nail. Sever just above that tenuous seam. A random clipping will fly farther than the rest. You’ll hear a soft clink as it vanishes into the bath mat.
Don’t look for it.
Lost items don’t want to be found.
Some fathers don’t either. You know.
6. Take a file. Blunt the edges the way sadness rounds itself. Listen to the scraping sound. Dead flakes snow down your knee. Let it pile like small rehearsed goodbyes.
7. Stand. Feel yourself grounded again. Maybe a little lighter. Claws defanged. Pain caged.
8. Turn on the lights. Observe your trimmed toes. Don’t lean down. Just glance from where you stand. Maintain a safe distance. Leave them at uneven, honest lengths.
9. 끝났으면, 로션 발라. If you're done, apply lotion.
You unhear your mother.
Instead, keep your heels calloused. It should help you walk normal.
10. Take a tissue. Sweep the floor. You’ll try to palm everything. But you’ll miss one or two. There’s always one. A shard small enough to escape, sharp enough to find you later.
You lift your foot, expecting glass.
But it is a piece of you, still waiting to cut.