By Mila Williams

A woollen, fingerless glove is nailed to the wall, alone. It’s being moved around by a slight breeze from an open window, a soft rustling sound coming from outside. It waits patiently as the nail refuses to relent, the rain falling peacefully on the tin roof. It thinks back to before it was encased in the decaying house — the warmth of the body heat it was helping to preserve, its double, its sudden loss. After all, it thinks, what is a glove if not doing its purpose? What is a glove, hanging on a wall, instead of in a drawer or on a hand? Surely this wasn’t what it was made for.

The opening of a door causes it to perk up. Perhaps this was the day? Maybe it’d be able to share its thoughts with another lonely glove? A heavy scraping sound reverberates through the house, and a large, black disposable bag is dropped halfway through the doorway. 

The Human pulls out a stained, leather glove from their pocket, wiping it on their dark shirt. They go to the nearby table and pick up a hammer and a singular nail out of a drawer. The hammer is held between their teeth, the glove held in place with one hand, and the nail positioned with the other, Human’s left hand slips into a holding stance.

The nail digs into the wooden wall, splintering it slightly as it goes in. 

Human drops the hammer back onto the table carelessly, and picks the bag back up. The glove may not be fulfilling its purpose, but now there’s another to fail with.

The bag seems to be moving, the fingerless glove notices, writhing slightly. Human gives it a ferocious kick, and the bag lets out a whimper of pain before stopping its movement.

The glove wonders what’s in the bag. Perhaps Human ran over an animal? No, the glove hasn’t seen an animal that large. Neither has the one next to it. It wiggles a bit, and the leather glove next to it wriggles back. 

The gloves watch as Human crouches down and heaves the bag over their shoulder, attempting to close the door with their foot, but giving up and walking out of sight. 

Hopefully they’ll be more, the first glove thinks, more gloves. I’m sure we’ll get bored of each other soon. Or perhaps not. Surely, they’ll be able to make a whole wall of other gloves, more to help figure out their new purpose.

It wonders how long it will take for the next to arrive. A day, a week or two, a month? The wait would be worth it, surely. As long as Human supplies them, which they will. The glove is certain of it.

Now, it waits.

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