Paper cuts

My fingers are patterned with a few paper cuts from putting books away at work in the library, and for the first time ever I am actively looking, trying to find something my mother has gifted me. They are vibrantly, terrifyingly blue plasters. Usually, she buys hair dye for me, as a birthday gift. Now that I think about it… I don’t really know what she’s trying to tell me. I have never once dyed my hair and neither has she. However, it’s my fault for never asking for anything, so maybe… hair dye is her go-to gift for everyone. Now that I think about it, she did give Paul some blue dye. He is very bald. Not even normal bald, I mean he is practically a walking solar panel, quite beautiful really.

My mother gave me a pack of plasters this year because I’m always clumsy, and for her entertainment, they’re the only ones I have access to. I would be thankful, however, she has printed her face into every single one. Lighthearted prank, sure, until you get a raise from your boss, get too excited and try to… awkwardly hug them; which they do actually begin to reciprocate… until they look down at your plasters. I tried to cover up the awkward interaction with jazz hands but quickly became heavily aware that no one in the room had watched a theatre production for some reason. I then stupidly tried to explain the history of jazz hands, until I got quickly cut off by my boss who just pointed at the door with a sigh. 

My mother hasn’t let me off for that story and it seems to be the funniest story to tell at family gatherings! For her! It’s great she’s having fun though. She laughs the hardest out of everyone she tells. It might be because she’s told it to everyone about five times now, and I think they’re all starting to think she has dementia. I overheard Paul telling everyone that this must be the case because he did in fact used to have long luscious hair! I don’t particularly know if I believe him in all honesty but I think bald people scare me a little bit. I want to confront him a little though. It’s like a little man is on my shoulder telling me to confront him. And the little man has hair so it’s really tense. 

Not that I’m usually confrontational! I once tried to tell off a child for bullying another child and then for some reason they both decided to call me names, which was honestly really surprising. I dealt with it like any adult would. Told my mum, tears down my cheeks and she promised if she saw them she’d fight them. I smiled at her with love in my eyes however I was met with her gaze looking into the open like she was actively planning how to fight these anonymous children. Like Batman. Except he wouldn’t beat children up like my mother. I don’t think Batman would do that.

My desk at work is dark oak wood. As I open the drawers to the horrifying plasters, I have to listen to a very sweet old man tell me that it’s his favourite type of wood. You’d think it’d end there, except for my lunch break, I end up with more time than usual due to the lack of customers, so I searched up the table. Found the exact same one actually! 

Spruce. The man walks over, checking out a book on wood types. I feel a guilty goblin prod me in the tummy. I end up telling the man that the desk is actually spruce. He says I ruined trees for him. I think that’s a bit insensitive considering that the book he had bought literally cut down a tree in order to be made however I guess to each their own.

I lose track of time quite quickly as the lack of customers makes it seem like I’m just being paid to watch some Victorian screensaver or something. The store begins to grow shadows and I start putting away all of the books left behind. I find myself at the door locking up until I feel this inhumane finger tap on my shoulder. It felt bone-like and weird so I swivelled my body around and slapped both hands across their face, and one accidentally back onto my own face. I scream in pain. They scream in anger. Then, for just one bittersweet moment, we just pause and look at each other with a mix of anxiety and utter, pure confusion. I accidentally pull my ugly sad face at them. They pull an involuntary one back in repulsion to my face. They open the door I was just about to lock, and leave, handing me a book that reads: “How to make friends.” 

Well now I feel a little bad don’t I? What a sad little book. I mean actually, it’s alarmingly heavy which makes me feel as if the way I’m making friends is almost definitely incorrect. In curiosity, I open the book. The first page is blank. Forgot books do that. I laugh to myself a little. I then read the next page. It has the title on it. Also happened to forget books do that too. Starting to feel like a bad librarian now.

The next page is an “about the author” section. I feel empathetic towards the author immediately and the need for this book for some people. The empathy only grows when I read about their sweet daughter, who apparently doesn’t have any friends. I read about the author struggling to find ways to help their daughter, so they wrote this book just in case she ever ran into it. It’s enough to make my eyes water, so I sit down at my desk and continue reading. The store is empty. Only I am sitting here, in the dark, barely making out half the words on the pages. I lightly laugh at myself for my laziness in reading in the dark, so I turn on my desk light and continue reading.

As my eyes wander, I’m met with a newly appeared image of the author, which was difficult to see in the dark beforehand. My empathy is completely obliterated as I’m met with a photo of my mother. My whole face drops even more when I realise that she used the same photo of her face that she did with the plaster.