My tongue plays around with the small white rice corn in my mouth. It goes up pressing up against my lips, down mushing against the bottom of my mouth, and as I swallow I feel it stick at the back of my neck like a sharp object.

The sight of my son makes me look at my nails. I haven't cut them in two weeks. I really should get to it. Tomorrow. Then I'll get to it, and of course my toe nails. I haven't cut them in months. They're thick. I have a feeling the metal is going to have a tough time piercing them, and there's too much filth beneath them.

My son has the opposite problem. He's around seven and doesn't have any nails. It's not a genetic problem, he just bites them off before they have a chance to grow. Stress, he tells me. The top of his fingers are just pink sensetive skin, the type that hate typing.

My eyelids feel heavy, a signal good as any to go to bed. I barely have time to close my eyelids before I'm asleep. I feel strange for being able to remember it. The next moment, I find myself awake. It's dark outside, the moon is out.

There's a strange feeling to my left. I look and find a dark globe topped by black hair hovering with my finger in its mouth. I recognize the face and those shining eyes as my son's, and he recognizes my awakeness just as quickly, and runs away.

I look at my hand. He's bitten off three of my nails. I feel myself gag. This is going to far. The feeling of rage washes over me. He's broken one of simplest and most basic norms. He has to be punished.

I rip my blanket off as if it is just a feather, and I swing my body around. My feet slam against the floor, and I'm up and standing. But they feel weird. Too sensetive or maybe too used. Before I take a step I look down, and I almost throw up.

There's no nails on my feet.