Work Text:
We sat cross legged facing each other in our small shared bathroom. The shower drips and the tiles are cracked, they need fixing. We should get around to doing that.
Craig holds the nail clippers in one hand, holding the other out towards me expectantly, I reluctantly give him my right hand.
He rubs my fingers and clips my nails, starting at the thumb. My left hand is clutching my thigh. Craig notices but doesn't say.
The light is harsh without a cover, staining the walls with a yellow tint.
My nails weren't long, but there was enough for Craig to get annoyed and cut them for me.
He finishes one hand and I give him my other. The feeling of short nails scratching desperately at my thigh, trying to feel more than the tips of my fingers is frustrating.
Craig doesn't talk when he does this. He never talks when I'm like this.
I had been fine for two weeks, but something clicked and the bugs were crawling under my skin again.
Sometimes Craig holds me so tight I feel like he's trying to hold me together. We don't have insurance and he blames himself when my prescriptions run out and we can't afford them for a while. I would hate for him to know I tongue my medication and save it for a rainy day.
I wish I could fly.
Craig finishes my nails and we stand up.
My stomach is twisting again and trying to come out my throat, but I don't tell him.
We go to our mattress and get under the blankets. I want to tell Craig I'm sorry, but I forget.