Not Just Gloves

"Why do you keep all your gloves on your wall? Why do you even have so many gloves?" I asked. There was a new kid in my underwater basket weaving class, and I was the only one who ever talked to him. He seemed shy. Today was my first time going over to his place.

"Those aren't even all my gloves," he answered, not actually answering either of my questions.

"Can't you at least organize them by color or something? This is so random." I liked things arranged in ways that made sense. My books were placed on my shelves from tallest to shortest, my t-shirts separated by sleeve length, my fruity perfumes on the left side of my dresser, and floral on the right. The gloves were hard to look at. I walked towards them, hoping he'd let me move them around. "Do you mind if I just-"

"I rather you didn't go near them, actually," he interrupted. "I don't like people touching my stuff."

"Oh," I backed away from the wall. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he shrugged it off, leaning on the railing. "I like your silver gloves. Why'd you take them off?"

"It's hot in here," I replied. "Why are you still wearing yours?"

"I like gloves."

Clearly.

Not Just Gloves

I was getting all kinds of strange vibes from this kid, from the weird stain on his jacket, to his obsession with gloves. The painting of the angry man wasn't helping things either.

I put my gloves back on.

"I better get going," I walked towards the stairs. I noticed for the first time that the gloves weren't really laying flat against the wall.

"So soon?" he asked, his eyes fixated on my hands.

I slowly poked one of the gloves, and felt something inside. The something was a severed hand. They were all severed hands. I tried to run out, but he grabbed my wrist.

"I really like your gloves," he said. "Can't wait to add them to my collection."