Second Place: Nail Biter

Nail Biter

by Jade Josie

Second Place

My cheeks feel warm buried in the crook of my elbow. I am something dead to the world, bloated and still. My scrawny limbs bend and spread across my desk as my mind floats anywhere else but here. I feel more comfortable than I ever could be in my bed, even in all of the clattering noise before first period. A chirping voice and a tap to my shoulder drags me from my haze. 

“Hi!” A hand waves in front of my face, making the pale school lights flash in my eyes. I feel like I’m under a flashlight, exposed. I want to scuttle away. “I’m Chrissy.”

Standing my ground, I keep my head right where it is. “Mm.” She’s the new girl the teacher warned us about.

Her eyes drag across me and settle on my fingers. “Oh, you bite your nails? I used to, too. I still have the nail polish that makes your fingers taste bad. You could borrow it, if you wanted.” 

I close my fist, feeling the fleshy tips of my fingers press into my palm. 

“Thanks.” I sighed.

Until then, the desk beside me had been empty, and the corner of our classroom was all mine. I got careless. I usually hide my nails from everyone. Bitten to the crescent of their beds, they are jagged and scabbed. They’re nasty and sickeningly short.

A moment of silence passes, and I think she’ll finally give up conversation with me like everyone else. 

“Mercedes is a pretty name,” she offers. She’s teasing me, saying my name is pretty while I am terribly ugly. 

I peek up at her through the nest of my hair. Her smile is too honest. It’s so carefree it makes my stomach hurt. She is very pretty, even with braces and a round face. Her soft brown waves feel like an insult to a mess like me. My face flushes. My mouth is dry. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel the desire to continue talking. 

“It’s Mercy. The way you pronounce it sounds like the car. I’m not a car.”

Chrissy lightly chuckles and nods.

She bothers me every day now. It’s the greatest mystery to me why this new, pretty girl would ever speak to me. She wants to know my favorite TV shows and books, and what my parents do for a living, and where I live. She even asks for my opinion about whatever new thought is flying through her head. I finally gather enough care to ask her if she’s a cop, and all she does is give me this honeyed chuckle.

No one likes me at school. The reason for that stares back at me in the mirror every day. I look like I’ve never slept through a night in my life. I have these purple, puffy duffel bags that weigh down my eyes. My cheeks are sunken. When I drag my finger down them, I think the skin might just slip off. My brown skin has paled in the last six months, and it’s getting hard to recognize myself. People think I look scary, and I get it. I wish I could paint my face white and call it a goth awakening, but my mom would kill me.

I’ve always been picked on. That's my normal, not Chrissy’s chirping in my ear. Anything about me is fair game. My shitty house, my looks, and now my hobby of sleeping through my classes has given people something new to make fun of me for.

Earlier today, my teachers called my mom to the school to ask if everything is alright at home. My grades are in a free fall, and I can’t stay awake for long. They ask me what could possibly be keeping a seventh grader up through the night. I hate how they label me like I’m a kid. I’m not. I have tits…pretty much, and I’m bleeding “irregularly,” and I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like for someone to put their hand on the “small” of my back, and for the first time in my life, belong with another human. The backs of my legs feel itchy against the principal's scratchy chairs. I just want to go back to my desk.  

“What’s keeping you up at night, Mercedes?” He asks me again. His bald head is shining under the fluorescent lighting. My teacher is behind him with her arms crossed.

I’ll tell them what they want to hear. It’s the television, it’s the incessant thoughts about my insecurities, it’s the computers, it’s anxiety, the videogames, and bright city lights. It’s anything but the truth.

It’s ironic. It’s all so horribly ironic that my head hurts right behind my left eye. The truth is stupid and ugly. They would only dismiss me. They wouldn’t want to hear that it's the thing living under my bed that keeps me awake. No, I’m not a kid, but I am scared. I’m scared of what happens in the dark. How would I ever tell them that though? Not even my mother cares, so why would they? 

After the meeting, she’s more upset with me. My mom works nights at the ER. Because of me, she had to come up to the school instead of spending her day sleeping. She repeats the same thing she’s told me for half a year.

“You cook up all these fantasies in your head, and look! Now those delusions are poisoning everything else! I told you if you can’t fall asleep, pray to Guadalupe." She huffs and looks outside. My body tenses. She’s so disappointed with me. She won’t meet my gaze, but it’s in her eyes that she regrets my existence. “Merche, I can’t help but think, whatever demons are haunting you must be after you for a reason.” She looks at me, her eyes hard and accusing. “Repent.” 

I learned a long time ago to look like I’m thinking and nod during my mother’s rants about sin and God. I do just that.

“You’re right, Mamá. I’m sorry. I’ll see you at home.” 

She walks off mumbling some prayers or curses, I don’t know which, she’s never bothered to teach me any Spanish. Once I watch her drive away, I promptly return to class and doze off.

Chrissy’s voice wakes me up later that day, but it isn’t bubbly like usual. It’s acidic and mean. She’s spitting some clever insults at the kids teasing her for sitting next to me. I keep my eyes closed. 

“I can’t choose where to sit!” She says it with indifference. It figures. A girl like Chrissy is trying to make the best of her situation, that’s all.

It’s better to pretend to be asleep. They’re only flies at my corpse, waiting to take a bite of me. Class begins and Chrissy doesn’t try to wake me up anymore. 

After class ends, she turns to me, “Do you want to hang out after school?” A smile teases her lips.

I’ve never wanted a friend, and I certainly don’t want Chrissy. 

“No. Stop asking.”

Chrissy purses her lips and starts to push all her cuticles back. She does this every time I reject her. She pushes and picks at them before she raises her hand in class too. 

I’ve already noticed that Chrissy has long, beautiful nails. They’re so long that even the white tips show. While I watch her fidget with the beds of her nails, an idea washes over me at once. I hate myself for it. I think about it all the walk home, how to lure Chrissy to my house and into my bed, and if I can even go through with it. But I have to. I’m getting desperate. 

After school, I stay at the park down at the end of my street to read and do homework like usual. Chrissy floods my thoughts all evening. I avoid my house for as long as I can, but I always get home by dark. Whenever Jason gets home, that means it’s time for bed. Jason is my father, but really, he’s more like my mom’s boyfriend. I don’t think Jason and my mom are married. Everytime I ask her about him, she never gives me a straight answer. He comes and goes for months or years on end, leaving behind the smell of oil and cigarettes. I don’t know if he knows he’s my father or even if my mom knows for sure. He’s been here for the last few months but thankfully gets home so late I barely see him. If Chrissy and I aren’t loud, he won’t know she’s even over.

I get home at eight. I open the door to my bedroom and my jaw falls open. Apparently, my mom went home after the school meeting and found as many crucifixes as she could and hung them all over my walls. I already have a tiny room, barely big enough for a twin bed and a desk. My room feels smaller under the gaze of each Christ. I wonder if the crucifixes are meant to drive the evil away or cage my own.

I collapse on my creaky bed under all His stares. My exhaustion tugs at me. I try my hardest to sleep like I have every night before. I used to read a lot of raunchy romance novels to fall asleep, but my mom found out what I had been renting from the library, so that ended. Instead of reading, I fall into my own mind now. When my eyes close, my imagination ignites, and I’m anywhere else but here.

For hours, I have trysts with famous actors, sexy monsters, or characters in past books. I try to cling to them, but my fantasies always melt away when it starts—and it always starts.

The darkness of my room grows thick and heavy. It’s like I can feel the weight of it forcing me deeper into the bed. It gets colder. There’s a presence that makes me feel naked and vulnerable, even under all my layers. 

A low hiss calls to me from under the bed. The floorboards creak under shifting weight. I take a deep breath. The creaking gets closer. The stench of smoke and iron burns in my nose. I try not to scream. Screaming and thrashing only upsets it. It’ll take more then. 

I dangle my hand off the side of the bed like bait. I wait. The heat of its breath kisses my skin. Its chapped and cracked lips drag across the tips of my fingers. It takes its time. My finger slides in its mouth. It gives attention to each one. It stops sucking when my fingers feel like they’re on fire. It peels the skin off the sides of my nails. It chews the scabs, the sound of it smacking echoes off the walls. It licks at the dribbling blood like an appetizer. Finally, it reaches the bed of my nail. I feel its sharp teeth nibble, bite, and gnaw away at the nubs of my nails. The sound of my nails crunching against its teeth makes my skin crawl. I look at the wall, at all His sorrowful stares. I ask the darkness of my mind, does Jesus see this too, Mamá?

It moves from hand to hand. When it gets bored, it moves to my toes. 

I shimmy my body closer to the foot of the bed. After months of this, I prepare myself like some kind of demented feast. My hands lifelessly hang off both sides of the bed, and my feet cross, waiting their turn. I look like the sacrifice that litters my walls. Does that make me holy? I’d feel better about that if I was at least protected by some invisible father in the sky or had abs like Him.

Removing my nails from their beds is excruciating, and its presence suffocates me. I only stopped wetting the bed a couple months ago. I’ve gone numb now. After so many nights of this, I understand how quickly, how easily, someone can resent their own body and senses. Every night I close in on myself, locking my soul somewhere deep inside me where the monster can’t touch. Once I do that, it’s like all of this is happening to someone else, some stranger, and not me. Even after it slithers back under my bed, I remain lifeless for however long it takes to come back to myself. 

It used to haunt me in my dreams for years, getting closer to catching me until it sat right in front of me one night, eating away. It was about six months ago when it grew from my mind into reality, and I’ve only seen its face once. 

It’s animal, human, and monster all at once. Its eyes are big like a fish with pupils that roam the whites of its eyes with no direction. Its teeth feel human, but its face is wrinkly and the skin sags off its face. When it saw me looking, its eyes locked on mine. It stole the breath from my lungs and any joy left in me. That’s all I care to remember. That one glimpse was enough to earn a different type of pain, one of fists, and claws, and more teeth.

The monster finally stops and scuttles back under my bed. I bring my hands to my chest and feel the sticky wetness on each tip. Another night is gone. Another part of me is consumed. My nails could never be like Chrissy’s. I don’t have much left to give. My nails have stopped growing back on my smallest fingers and the rest grow so painfully slow. Sometimes I substitute my nails for extra blood. I cut myself before it visits me, and I let it feed. Other times I take clumps of hair from my shower drain, but nothing satisfies it more than my fingers and toes.

Whenever my mom is gone, I dig through the trash in our shared bathroom. I rummage through tissues and discarded pads for nail clippings. My mom made sure to warn me against the evils of tampons and the importance of my virtue when I first bled a couple months ago. Honestly, being a woman has been a bummer so far. I thought it would be more like the books I’ve read, like I wake up one day with huge tits and glowy skin and I smell like lust. 

But no, I’m barely more than flat, my skin is dull, and I don’t know what sexy even smells like. In my free time, I can be found dumpster diving behind the local nail salon for any clippings I can find. It was pretty awkward when one of the ladies found me and started yelling at me in clipped tones one day. I didn’t know what she was saying but I could guess. It was probably the same things I told myself. 

I’m not stupid, I can see how disgusting I am. Even my heart is an ugly thing. It is a malformed, heavy, hurtful thing to have inside. I dream of switching bodies with someone and watching them double over from the weight they would feel in their chest. It is something only I can carry, something that I can restrain. I don't think my blood pumps the way others’ do. I think my blood sits in my heart and boils, burning me from the inside. It splashes up my throat until I spit fire and burn anyone around me. I remember hurling some rude words at that lady and booking it for home. 

I only have my emergency stash left. The monster’s visits have been more frequent because of the skimpy meals the bits of my nails offer. If I offer up Chrissy, it might drive it away for a little while longer. That would give me more time to scavenge and more time for my own nails to grow. My stash is running dangerously low. I don’t want to find out what else the monster likes to eat. I need to get her here as soon as possible. 

“So, what changed?” Chrissy asks me days later, between classes, tucked in our little corner of the world. Her eyebrow quirks up. She’s suspicious of me, but she can’t possibly know what I really want. 

My voice is starting to hurt. I’ve been trying to act bubbly and gentle all day. Even my body is rejecting my attitude. “Oh! Nothing, really.” I smirk. “You just finally broke me down.” Our teacher comes back in from gawking at the passing students in the hallway with the group of other teachers. Class is about to begin, but before it does, I take a peek at Chrissy before I settle back into a comfortable sleeping spot. 

She looks pleased to hear that she has muscled her way into my mind. But she wasn’t my friend. If she truly was, if I truly loved her, would I be offering her up like a sacrifice? Chrissy is pretty enough to be one, but I don't think it matters. The monster takes anything it can. I wonder if I was pretty, if the monster would be kinder to me. Would it love me instead of torture me? 

Is it going to like Chrissy more than me? I feel something strange inside. It’s like someone blew up a balloon in my chest, then popped it. I am briefly empty. A part of me that I don’t want to think about is getting excited to sacrifice her. 

Chrissy comes over later. I can’t believe I’ve finally acted normal enough to have a real sleepover. She’s standing in my room. She takes up such little space. She’s small. 

I have to go through with this. I have no other option. My nails are nothing more than stubs, much more flesh than nails. I have no more to give, and what would happen then?

We dress for bed while talking about whatever meaningless seventh grade gossip is floating around. We actually exchange some genuine laughs. I’ve tried to resist her, but I can’t help the feeling that Chrissy is growing on me. She’s funny, wickedly clever, and hasn’t uttered a single condescending word about me or my home. We pile into my skinny bed with our butts touching, not exactly comfortable, but necessary. 

Chrissy yawns and I can hear the heart pendant she keeps around her neck sliding back and forth on its chain as she paws at it. 

“I’m feeling pretty tired. I don’t think I can stay up anymore, sorry, Mercy.” 

I hope she’s a heavy sleeper, but I know it doesn’t matter much. Only an hour ago, I filled Chrissy’s belly with dulce de leche and manzanilla tea. I even slipped in my mother’s melatonin capsules. It was the only thing I could do for her. 

“That’s alright. Goodnight,” I whisper to the shadows of my room.

I keep my fingers tight to my chest and feel my heart bumping against my ribs. It feels like I’m waiting forever, but then I finally hear it. The low hiss from under the bed heralds the creaking of the floorboards. I know it’s time. 

With such little room for the both of us, Chrissy’s hands hang off the side of bed. I feel her body tense against the mattress. She’s whimpering and trembling. I can hear the wet sounds of it licking and sucking at her flesh. The sound of muted crunching feels like it’s tapping me on the shoulder. It sends chills down my arms. Every one of Chrissy’s shallow breaths cuts me. I know exactly what it would be doing now.

The monster would grab her wrist to stop her shaking and bite every one of her nails until they were so short it couldn’t bite off anymore. Chrissy won’t be able to run, or yell, or cry. The fear will lull her just enough to not make a commotion. She’ll feel everything but feel outside her body at the same time.

The bed is shaking under her trembling. Tears finally slip from my eyes and puddle on my pillow. The wet sounds of it eating away at her pulse through me. I feel bile flipping in my stomach. I screw my eyes shut and take in a sharp breath.

I flip over in a flash and hug Chrissy from behind. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I whisper over and over again against her shoulder. Her shirt sticks to my cheek as my tears soak through it. “Just don’t look. It’ll be over soon.”

“M…Mercy…” Chrissy whispers between whimpers and groans, begging me for any kind of help.

I can’t take it anymore. I reach under my pillow for the tiny drawstring bag I keep there. I toss the bag of fingernails over the edge of the bed. Everything stops. My last stash of nails is enough to draw the monster back under the bed. 

Chrissy’s breathing slows as she regains control of her own body. I sit up. I can’t look at her, so I keep my back turned. In my mind, I hurl every bad thought and curse I know against myself. It’s a buzzing that I can’t stop. I’m the monster. Mamá is right, I deserve this curse. 

“Mercy.”

Her voice pulls me to reality.

“Look at me.” She begs. How can I? I had tried to stain something so beautiful, so how can I face her?

“You make me go through that, and you can’t even say anything?” Chrissy roughly grabs my shoulder and turns me around to meet her cutting gaze. 

Her lips are trembling. My chest throbs. Moments pass with our silence floating fat in the air. Then she nods, pulling me to her chest. I feel her body drape over my head. Her heart pendant tickles my spine. 

I cry harder when I realize what I’ve done. I’ve hung my ugly, heavy heart on that necklace of hers, and it’s pulling her down. She is doubling over with the weight of it. Instead of throwing it off, she’s holding me tight. With an ugly wail, I exorcise all the fear, regret, and despair in my body. Everything I’ve been carrying feels a little lighter against Chrissy’s warmth. 

“Is it…like this every night?” Chrissy whispers against my hair.

I nod and continue to weep, making horrible hiccupping and shuttering sounds.

She whispers, “I’ll fix this.” 

I look up at her. She keeps one hand on my back and one around my elbow like I might float away if she doesn’t hold on to me. 

“I used to have a monster too.”

“What—?”

“Shh, I can’t tell you, or it might not work.”

“No, I can’t ask you for help! Look at what I did! Why would you help me?”

“Because we do what we have to.” She gives me a wet smile and whispers, “I understand.”

She tells me she needs my help. Jason is still home, so I sneak around the house and gather every incense, candle, old book or bible I can find. I throw them all in a pile on my room's floor. She thanks me and tells me I have to leave. We decide to meet at the park down the street in ten minutes, once she finishes “the ritual,” as she calls it.

At the park, I sit on one of the swings and rock back and forth. I had never seen Chrissy so serious. Her eerie calmness unsettled me, but anytime I asked a question she soothed me with a knowing smile. Something deep inside me knows I can trust her. I have faith that anything she’s going to do would be better than how I’m living. 

The crunching of wood chips under foot makes me turn. Chrissy is behind me, sliding the red and gold heart on her necklace back and forth.

“It’s done. It worked!” She smiled.

She starts to push me on the swing, drawing me back and pushing me forward. She tells me a story about her own monster, how she had to move to get away from it, and that she’s so tired of hiding. Eventually our conversation becomes lighter again and she even makes me laugh. A siren interrupts us. We turn our heads to watch the firetruck fly down the street. Its winding lights draw me in. They tell me to follow.

“We should go back,” I tell her.

On the walk back, I feel so drawn into Chrissy’s voice that I don’t notice the smoke. The smell of smoldering ash and flame tickles my nose. We round the corner and see a fire swallowing my house. Flames lick at the siding. Smoke pours from the windows. I break out into a sprint.

A firefighter stops me before I can get to the lawn. I yell that I live there. He gives me a pitying look, telling me to wait for my mom on the curb. They have already called her, and she’s on her way. We watch the firefighters battle the flames with a small crowd of my neighbors.

“Mercedes!” I hear my mother’s voice and look through the crowd. “Mercedes!” She pushes through the crowd of people and finally finds us, and breathlessly voices, “Jason! He was home, where is he?!”

I didn’t even think of him. My head whips around to ask Chrissy, but no words pass my lips when I look at her. She rubs the heart pendant of her necklace between her thumb and forefinger. Studying my face, she looks into my eyes and her gaze drifts to my hair. She flashes the kindest smile I’ve ever seen and tucks my hair behind my ear. 

Winning pieces are published as received.

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Fiction Potluck

April 2026

Second Place Winner:

Jade Josie

Jade Josie is a speculative writer from Cleveland, Ohio. Soon she is beginning her MFA in fiction writing at Bowling Green State University. She enjoys writing strong, conflicted female characters and stories that flip expectation. When not writing, she is reading any fantasy novel that falls between Robin Hobb and Joe Abercrombie.