The Its

It anxiously waits until mother shuts off the front porch lights before it ascends from the metal framed bed. A grin absorbs its face as it begins to untuck the moth-eaten bed sheet stubbornly sticking onto the paper-thin mattress as if its meaningless cotton life depended on it. The loose corners of the decaying bedsheet unravel as quickly as the flimsy spools of yarn mother hand makes during every cold season. Its sheer, skinny fingers crack and bleed as if they haven’t touched anything in centuries. Red dots begin to crowd its vision as it passes its tongue over each and every one of its remaining bottom teeth, restlessly trying to revive the taste of its saline blood. Mother was right. It hasn’t shown its jagged teeth since it forgot how the warmth of the sun’s rays felt when they brushed against its scaly skin. Its bone-dry tears eagerly claw their way out of its black eye as it pries open its sore jaw. Silent and unsure, it does not open its mouth until its saliva’s moisture dissipates from its chapped, blue lips. As soon as its nail-less, purple toes touch the bottom part of the dusky room, a strong, sudden wind makes its way through the only window. It quickly tumbles to its feet and lets its hairless head fall between its paling knees that ache as it begins to shake from the coolness of the dark, metal floor. Mother was right. It counts to 100 Mississippi before it dares to open its small, crusty eye. It shuts it swiftly before anything is able to puncture its way through it - again. It learned its lesson during the last cold season. It counts to 200 Mississippi this time. Mother was right. As it hastily opens its mucus-coated eye once more, it steals a peek of the yellowing translucent curtains hanging from the rusting white curtain rod. It doesn’t see it until it hears the intruder’s thunderous thud. It lands right on top of its spoiled bedsheets Mother spent the entire evening ironing into crystal-cut, rectangular perfection. Mother was right. It is too late. It should not have let its feet’s curiosity lead it astray towards the floors, especially during the dark parts of the day. It should not have opened the window unless it wanted the unwanted to wander in. It was lucky to be kept indoors unlike the other “its”. That is what Mother told it. Mother told it to not disobey or doubt. Mother told it to shit itself senseless before it opened that goddamn window. Now it has to pay the price. It trembles as it crawls towards the wide, metal door that towers over it and the intruder. It shakily stares at the abominable thing sprawled across the bed. Its jitters make it groan as it twists the grimy, grey handle. It closes its eyes, lets its bald, scabby head land between its ashy, wobbly knees and screams, “Mother you were right!”