Gloveless

 

I’d never been asked why I wear them, before.

I just assumed everyone did.

It came up because I flinched. She squeezed my hand and it hurt. The first few times I just assumed this is what it was like for everyone, but after enough occasions I found myself asking her how she could do that when it hurts so much.

She asked what I meant, and I pointed to her gloves.

* * * * * * * *

My gloves were hand-me-downs, you see. The kind my mother wore when she was my age. I was resistant to wearing them, of course. Every kid is hesitant to take things they don’t understand and don’t like, but I didn’t know then what an honor they are to have, to be gifted.

Eventually I was convinced and began to wear them both to school and around the house. I told my Mom they itched but she brushed me off, saying she knew: She’d complained about the same when she was my age. But she got used to them, so I would too.

* * * * * * * *

My friend looked down at her own gloved hand in confusion. She asked what I meant, and I explained that I don’t know how she tolerates the pain. I like being wanted, but holding hands hurts so much. Grabbing light tools and the like is fine, and I can bare it for a handshake, but she basically throws herself into things that would or do cause me agony. My hands aren’t strong enough.

* * * * * * * *

My Dad had formed a habit, shaking the hands of people in business meetings, or first time acquaintances. He sought to teach me the trick and when he first grabbed my hand, I screamed.

I didn’t realize I was so weak.

He seemed angry, he shouted at me for my weakness, for wincing away when he tried again. He told me this is something everyone must do, so I’d just have to grin and bare it.

* * * * * * * *

She gave me such a funny look. She asked if I had broken bones or such. I shook my head and explained it was my skin. That it always hurt and that it had just grown worse and worse since I was a kid, a condition my Mom suffered from too. It hurt to be touched.

Her odd stare persisted. She asked if it’d be okay for her to see my hands. I agreed, but not in public. I knew how they would be treated, I knew how they’d be revolting. But I trusted her. We could go to her house and I could show her.

* * * * * * * *

My teachers always scolded me for how unhelpful I could be arranging things around the classroom.

One day you’re gonna have to lift your furniture and shake hands with recruiters. What’ll you do then?

They asked and asked. I never had an answer, so I just stopped trying to help and just tried to keep my hands safe.

I would act, because theatre acting didn’t require heavy work on the hands. It didn’t require pain, and even hand holding was faker than the kisses. I learned to play chess because the pieces were light and easy. When I went swimming or visited friends, I had to always be wearing my gloves, so I always did things where my hands didn’t need to deal with much pressure.

I remember dating a man who loved these gloves. Said they were the sign of a well-raised woman, ready to be a bride. Insisted I looked good with them on, hated the idea of me taking them off, and would grab my wrist tightly.

I think he took my screams for pleasure.

It took many years to get him to let go and when I did, when I winced and cried and said I preferred to be untouched, he dumped me.

I thought being hurt was a sign I was an awful partner who just couldn’t love properly.

* * * * * * * *

When we got to her house, she asked me to take them off. She was confused as to why I needed to go to the bathroom to do so. She stood beside me as I undid the straps around my upper arm, and pulled one of the gloves off, letting the accumulated blood pour into the sink.

Naturally, she screamed.

As I emptied my glove out, the sound caught me a bit more surprised than it should’ve, and I automatically went to put my glove back on and spare her the horror.

* * * * * * * *

I remember telling my parents that I thought it was annoying to wear the gloves, asking why we do, getting into long arguments about how my mother made this opportunity for me, and how should I ever make friends if I can’t put up with this simple pain?

I remember making friends with a boy in my year who also had gloves. I remember seeing him crying because the gloves were awful and I remember the other kids yelling at him that he was disgusting when he took them off.

* * * * * * * *

To my surprise, my friend stopped me from putting them back on. For once, she lead me around by my shoulder sleeves rather than my hands.

I apologized for being disgusting, I begged her not to cry, I tried to make light or hide my hands, but she did not lose that look in her eye, and she didn’t smile.

She told me to brace myself, snatching something from her medicine bag and dumping it on my arms.

I let out a pained scream, right before I passed out.

* * * * * * * *

I remember the day my Dad got sick. I remember the stressors that came after driving my siblings back and forth, trying not to sob so I could still see the road.

I remember how much I loved my family. My parents giving me shelter and offering food, even celebrating my birthday. They look out for me and try to keep me respectable, and are of course certain of my imperfections, and always wondering when first meetings go wrong, if I took my gloves off. Trying to make sure I made every effort to fit in.

I remember when my Mom told me that my Dad’s sickness was my fault. That I complained too much about my clothes or my car or my gloves, my gloves, my gloves.

* * * * * * * *

When I came to, my friend had laid me down on her living room couch. The house was empty, as she was the only one who lived there. I went to rub the goose-egg that must’ve formed when I hit the tile, and saw my hands.

They’d been bandaged. The serrated skin masked expertly between sweeping strips of the bandages, and the rest clearly cleaned of the dried blood and bloodstains that were usually so difficult to remove. A bottle of rubbing alcohol stood empty on the side table.

She was sitting nearby, exhausted.

I asked her why. Why did she let me sleep, why bandage my hands? Don’t people usually throw freaks out? I can take it, I may be weak but I’m strong enough.

She looked at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen and told me I’m the strongest patient she’s had. She admitted to worrying about me, whenever I’d wince or hesitate. She said she suspected what I was dealing with but didn’t expect it to be so awful, that it was far worse than she had anticipated.

I apologized and pulled my gloves off of the table, but she snatched them from me. I said I could put them on so I didn’t have to upset her, but she shushed me.

She asked me to be honest with her about when I was in pain. That I didn’t have to suffer alone and if we were going to be friends, she wanted to make sure I was okay. That it was the whole reason she became a nurse. To never put the gloves on again.

But, I didn’t know what to do. My parents would kick up a storm if they saw me without my gloves. Even on occasions where I’ve tried to raise to them that they have caused me pain, they accuse me of trying to be lazy and find it to be a demonstration of my unwillingness to listen, my ungratefulness as a member of their family, and oh why don’t I just abandon them and get it over with, or so they’d say. She wiped tears from her eyes, and I could see the cogs turning in her thoughtful mind, the silence balanced on a precipice.

I wound up asking her why she bandaged me, when I needed to get stronger. When I was starting to get used to them.

She told me that I didn’t have to be so strong.

But, I do. I must. It is only right, for all they have given me, to do this for them. It is needed. I need to keep myself safe, away from shouting matches and scrutiny. Away from the harsh eyes or the constant blame, or the threats that stressing my parents out will give my mother a heart attack, or the long arguments where I’m dragged in to prove I was never any good at inheriting the gloves anyway, and why don’t they just give the gloves to my siblings? And I say yes, yes, please, and they take me as all the more ungrateful and threaten to kick me out, and

She put a hand on my knee and I stopped rambling. She told me I was anxious and asked me to tell her five things I could see. So, I answered her.

The couch. The windows. The television. My bandages. Her.

Four things I could feel.

My shirt. My bandages. My socks. Her hand.

Three things I could hear.

My breathing. My voice. …..The sound of my hand against the couch fabric.

Two I could smell.

Blood. Alcohol.

One I could taste.

My saliva.

 

I found myself… able to breathe. I held my hands out for my gloves, but she begged me not to, and I found that I was no longer prepared to push the matter. She warned me it would damage the bandages and wound me further.

I told her I didn’t know what to do, and she asked what I wanted. When I didn’t have an answer, she said she wanted me to see how nice holding hands was without the gloves.

To make her point, she took her gloves off.

On her hands I saw the same signs I’d seen on mine. Cuts and scratches long-healed dotted the backs and palm of her hands. Her fingers  seemed to be covered in tiny dents and scars, marks of her wearing similar gloves to mine, but shorter and not for a long time. Her present gloves, she explained to me, were to hide her scars, because she was ashamed.

She held out her hand, and I hesitated, but I couldn’t find myself to refuse.

I wanted to know.

I took her hand, and she rubbed her thumb against mine gently.

It was fine. It was nice. I found I… rather enjoyed the soft sensation.

I enjoyed how cold my hands felt.

I didn’t know what to do, or how to amend my old life, and she told me simply, that we could see about getting me new gloves without all the blades on the inside.

So my parents wouldn’t know, and I’d be able to live my life.

I asked if that was really okay, if I deserved all that effort.

She shrugged and said no one deserves a life of pain just for trying their best.

And then when she saw what I was trying to hide,

She told me it was strong to cry.