She heard the police siren behind
her on the secluded patch to her home. She skipped a heartbeat as she slowed
and stopped on the roadside. As the police officer walked closer, she felt
pounding in her chest and sweat in the back of her neck. The dashboard clock
blinked 2am.
The police officer, an
intimidating man, threw the flash light in her face. She rolled down her window
and greeted with the best smile she could muster. He glanced at her revealing
dress, her exaggerated make up and her flashy handbag on the next seat.
“Madam, may I see your license,
please”. As she looked for the documents, the unzipped bag revealed the disheveled
mess of all random titbits- some receipt, a lipstick, an edge of a Ziploc. The license
checked out and he asked her to take the alcohol test. She wanted to rebel.
This was stereotyping she thought but decided to obey. The breathalyzer
revealed no alcohol. Finally, the officer announced that her tail light is
broken. “Please get it fixed. Goodnight”. And he was gone as abruptly as he had
appeared.
Startled with this brush with
law, she slowly turned the ignition; the dashboard lit up and the engine revved. She
drove straight home, blood still pounding on her temples.
It was only when she reached home
that she finally felt the adrenaline withdraw and nerves calming. In the kitchen,
she pulled out the familiar small jar filled with formaldehyde and carefully
dropped the contents of the Ziploc shutting the lid tight. She carried it to
the bedroom, moved the bookshelf to reveal the secret cabinet with thirty-four
exact jars lined up perfectly. She placed hers neatly and admired in the concealed
lighting. The manicured little finger in glowing ivory skin with perfectly
shaped bright glossy red nail floated, perfectly preserved next to the one with ebony skin in shocking pink nail paint.
She smiled at her treasure,
pulled the bookshelf back and tucked herself into a restful sleep knowing that
the owner of the finger was still in the club bathroom with a jab on the side
of her neck.
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