She only wore it once. Her fingernails bled from the red nail polish as it was thrown across the table.
It was chilly out and everyone was inside with Vinni. She wanted her nails done like always. Vinni had always hated not having her nails colored. She thought they looked ugly without it. It was almost like a safety net for her. I suppose I wouldn’t know. Vinni liked this dark burnt red. She wore this color a lot. She liked getting her nails done in this color, she dyed her hair this color. Everything had to be red. I appreciate the color red, but not in a special way like Vinni. To me it's just a color visible through my eyes. It's meaningless to those who see nothing.
Vinni had cancer. It was her own fault as she smoked for as long as I can remember. One day she stopped. It was very obscure and awkward for us. It wasn’t easy to quit because she wasn’t special. But as much as we had hoped, quitting didn’t make the years disappear. Lung cancer quickly spread through her body and forced her to be put on Chemotherapy. Cancer was not new to Vinni as she had once suffered from breast cancer. I remember when she beat it. She looked like a small helpless rabbit quivering from the cold. For the next five years her house was kept at 78˙, even in the summer. Vinni was not a Cancer, she was born in early May. Vinni was a true Taurus.
I wanted to paint Vinni’s nails that day. My aunt helped her with the chair. She sat down and moved it over to the table. I began painting. Slowly, in a continuous one way motion. I saw the small brush marking each of her nails with the wrong color red. Vinni saw this too. She knew that the color was wrong. Vinni’s shaky fingers messed up the process. She was always shaking. She was weak now. I looked at her and stared into her eyes, she was unrecognizable. I didn't know who sat in front of me anymore. She was small, skinny, and weak. Vinni had always been strong. I always thought she had been strong.
Vinni violently shook her hands, the red nail polish flying off her fingers onto the walls. The bottle was knocked over and sent flying across the table. She needed to rest. Vinni went back to her room, leaving me sitting alone in the kitchen.
I wasn’t allowed to cry because Vinni would see. She died a week later. I still have the red polish.
It was chilly out and everyone was inside with Vinni. She wanted her nails done like always. Vinni had always hated not having her nails colored. She thought they looked ugly without it. It was almost like a safety net for her. I suppose I wouldn’t know. Vinni liked this dark burnt red. She wore this color a lot. She liked getting her nails done in this color, she dyed her hair this color. Everything had to be red. I appreciate the color red, but not in a special way like Vinni. To me it's just a color visible through my eyes. It's meaningless to those who see nothing.
Vinni had cancer. It was her own fault as she smoked for as long as I can remember. One day she stopped. It was very obscure and awkward for us. It wasn’t easy to quit because she wasn’t special. But as much as we had hoped, quitting didn’t make the years disappear. Lung cancer quickly spread through her body and forced her to be put on Chemotherapy. Cancer was not new to Vinni as she had once suffered from breast cancer. I remember when she beat it. She looked like a small helpless rabbit quivering from the cold. For the next five years her house was kept at 78˙, even in the summer. Vinni was not a Cancer, she was born in early May. Vinni was a true Taurus.
I wanted to paint Vinni’s nails that day. My aunt helped her with the chair. She sat down and moved it over to the table. I began painting. Slowly, in a continuous one way motion. I saw the small brush marking each of her nails with the wrong color red. Vinni saw this too. She knew that the color was wrong. Vinni’s shaky fingers messed up the process. She was always shaking. She was weak now. I looked at her and stared into her eyes, she was unrecognizable. I didn't know who sat in front of me anymore. She was small, skinny, and weak. Vinni had always been strong. I always thought she had been strong.
Vinni violently shook her hands, the red nail polish flying off her fingers onto the walls. The bottle was knocked over and sent flying across the table. She needed to rest. Vinni went back to her room, leaving me sitting alone in the kitchen.
I wasn’t allowed to cry because Vinni would see. She died a week later. I still have the red polish.
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