“Are you done cleaning your room yet?”
“I’m working on it, Mom!” Daniel growled, exasperated by Mrs. Crocker’s constant badgering. He hated how she nitpicked everything he did, how she criticized his friends and choice of hobbies. But most of all, he hated how his mother treated him like something she didn’t need; something she’d be better off without. She treated him like a blistering rash that wouldn’t leave her alone, but one she couldn’t leave alone either, because she kept on scratching it.
Determined not to get blasted by another screaming session, Daniel hastily straightened his sheets, then reached under his bed. His hand rustled against some ancient candy wrappers and crumpled homework before finding something small and soft. Frowning in confusion, Daniel withdrew his hand, and with it, an unfamiliar glove. He peeked under the bed in search of its twin, but with no luck. It was alone. The glove was purple, the color of rotting plums in the shadow of a tree’s arms. Stained, worn yarn twisted, snake-like, to make up each stitch. His fingers twitched at the thought of being wrapped in them. More than anything, he wanted to put the glove on.
Daniel’s body shivered like he’d been dunked in an ice bath, then stilled as he smoothed the upright hairs on his arms. He was overcome with a sense of understanding. The purple glove needed him. It was lonely without its other half, the right hand glove. Broken. Slowly, Daniel slid the glove over his hand, letting his fingers fill each space perfectly. The purple glove caressed him, gripped him tightly, like it was clinging to a branch above an abyss. He had never felt so needed. So loved. A grin stretched across Daniel’s face.
“Come to dinner!” his mother barked. “I won’t wait any longer.”
Daniel shoved his gloved hand into his pocket and strode into the dining room. Two plates of roast beef and green beans rested on the table, their comforting aroma dancing around the room. Plopping down across from Mrs. Crocker, Daniel stabbed into the chunk of uncut meat with his fork, hefting the entire piece to his mouth. Mrs. Crocker’s eyebrows rose, her lips thin and bloodless.
“We are not animals, Daniel. Please use a knife.”
Daniel slowly lifted his gloved hand out from under the table, reaching for the knife. This time, Mrs. Crocker’s eyebrows dove like fiercely thrown daggers, knitting together in disapproval.
She hissed, “Why are you wearing that hideous thing? And on only one hand? No gloves at the table.”
Daniel bristled. “It’s not hideous!” He cupped the purple glove in his other hand protectively. Mrs. Crocker stood up.
“I swear, Daniel, if you don’t remove that glove right now, I will.” Lunging across the table, she grabbed his left wrist; a snake strangling a rodent. The rodent struggled away, breaking free. His wrist slipped through her grip, and the purple glove came off.
Mrs. Crocker froze, mouth open in shock, eyes leaping back and forth between the glove she held and Daniel’s hand. Both were equally purple. Both, the color of ripe bruises. Wilted violets. Daniel snarled, straining his discolored hand towards the glove.
“Give it back!” he shrieked, his voice otherworldly. “It loves me! It needs me! More than you ever did!” Daniel’s body shook once more, before he crumpled.
Fear-stricken, Mrs. Crocker shoved the glove deep into the trash with shaking hands, burying it like a corpse.
She laid her feverish son tenderly on his bed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Washing out years of fiery arguments, as well as tears, an intense sigh broke from her lips. Why hadn’t she loved him more? She had treated him like dirt, when he was everything that she needed. Daniel had been her candle. Yet she had doused his flame, submerging them both in darkness.
The next morning, Mrs. Crocker was woken by a feeling of hollowness. A lonely fog had settled over the house overnight, heavy on her chest. She checked Daniel’s room, confirming her foreboding suspicion. Daniel was gone. Instead of her son, the purple glove lay on the bed. And with it, a note. “Come join us,” it said.
Mrs. Crocker needed the purple glove. She was lonely without Daniel, her son. Broken. She wanted so badly to be whole.
Ms. Crocker put the glove on her hand.
“I’m working on it, Mom!” Daniel growled, exasperated by Mrs. Crocker’s constant badgering. He hated how she nitpicked everything he did, how she criticized his friends and choice of hobbies. But most of all, he hated how his mother treated him like something she didn’t need; something she’d be better off without. She treated him like a blistering rash that wouldn’t leave her alone, but one she couldn’t leave alone either, because she kept on scratching it.
Determined not to get blasted by another screaming session, Daniel hastily straightened his sheets, then reached under his bed. His hand rustled against some ancient candy wrappers and crumpled homework before finding something small and soft. Frowning in confusion, Daniel withdrew his hand, and with it, an unfamiliar glove. He peeked under the bed in search of its twin, but with no luck. It was alone. The glove was purple, the color of rotting plums in the shadow of a tree’s arms. Stained, worn yarn twisted, snake-like, to make up each stitch. His fingers twitched at the thought of being wrapped in them. More than anything, he wanted to put the glove on.
Daniel’s body shivered like he’d been dunked in an ice bath, then stilled as he smoothed the upright hairs on his arms. He was overcome with a sense of understanding. The purple glove needed him. It was lonely without its other half, the right hand glove. Broken. Slowly, Daniel slid the glove over his hand, letting his fingers fill each space perfectly. The purple glove caressed him, gripped him tightly, like it was clinging to a branch above an abyss. He had never felt so needed. So loved. A grin stretched across Daniel’s face.
“Come to dinner!” his mother barked. “I won’t wait any longer.”
Daniel shoved his gloved hand into his pocket and strode into the dining room. Two plates of roast beef and green beans rested on the table, their comforting aroma dancing around the room. Plopping down across from Mrs. Crocker, Daniel stabbed into the chunk of uncut meat with his fork, hefting the entire piece to his mouth. Mrs. Crocker’s eyebrows rose, her lips thin and bloodless.
“We are not animals, Daniel. Please use a knife.”
Daniel slowly lifted his gloved hand out from under the table, reaching for the knife. This time, Mrs. Crocker’s eyebrows dove like fiercely thrown daggers, knitting together in disapproval.
She hissed, “Why are you wearing that hideous thing? And on only one hand? No gloves at the table.”
Daniel bristled. “It’s not hideous!” He cupped the purple glove in his other hand protectively. Mrs. Crocker stood up.
“I swear, Daniel, if you don’t remove that glove right now, I will.” Lunging across the table, she grabbed his left wrist; a snake strangling a rodent. The rodent struggled away, breaking free. His wrist slipped through her grip, and the purple glove came off.
Mrs. Crocker froze, mouth open in shock, eyes leaping back and forth between the glove she held and Daniel’s hand. Both were equally purple. Both, the color of ripe bruises. Wilted violets. Daniel snarled, straining his discolored hand towards the glove.
“Give it back!” he shrieked, his voice otherworldly. “It loves me! It needs me! More than you ever did!” Daniel’s body shook once more, before he crumpled.
Fear-stricken, Mrs. Crocker shoved the glove deep into the trash with shaking hands, burying it like a corpse.
She laid her feverish son tenderly on his bed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Washing out years of fiery arguments, as well as tears, an intense sigh broke from her lips. Why hadn’t she loved him more? She had treated him like dirt, when he was everything that she needed. Daniel had been her candle. Yet she had doused his flame, submerging them both in darkness.
The next morning, Mrs. Crocker was woken by a feeling of hollowness. A lonely fog had settled over the house overnight, heavy on her chest. She checked Daniel’s room, confirming her foreboding suspicion. Daniel was gone. Instead of her son, the purple glove lay on the bed. And with it, a note. “Come join us,” it said.
Mrs. Crocker needed the purple glove. She was lonely without Daniel, her son. Broken. She wanted so badly to be whole.
Ms. Crocker put the glove on her hand.