“Hey, it kinda looks like a sausage.” Goosebumps creep onto her skin and her eyes widen at the voice she had just heard. No, he can’t be. The sound of her rapidly anxious heartbeat taking over, she quickly looks back to see what the boy was talking about and soon realize he was talking about the diagram on the board. It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me, she reassures herself, but it is too late. Memories of pain and grief flood back into her mind, breaking the walls she had mentally built up just like that. Hey sausage fingers. Ew, your hands are so chubby. These memories that she had tried so hard to forget: the teasing, the laughter, the words of nonchalant assurance, Oh Mia, we were just joking, as she forced herself to laugh along and pretend she was not fazed by her classmates’ words. But the truth is, she was.
It was September 13, 2012. She bounces into study hall with light footsteps and sets her plain black backpack down. She turns to some of her friends to strike up a conversation and it was not a surprise when Mia found out they were already talking about the latest gossip. “Did you hear about Alex and her family?” “No! What happened? “Apparently, she moved because her parents thought she couldn’t handle it here.” “Wow, that is so like her, just to give up.” In the midst of their conversation, Mia says, “What if she had another reason to go?” Her friends look back at her with pity and dumbfound eyes. “Oh Mia, always thinking the good of people,but it’s kinda obvious what went on here.” Chuckling, the friends jump to another topic: Michael’s new haircut. With a sigh, Mia takes out a book to read and plunges herself into the world of Nick Carraway and Jay Gatsby. All of a sudden, Mia resurfaces to the real world when she hears something. “Whoa, your hands are so fat. They’re like mini sausages.” She turns around in interest and it takes her a stupidly long moment to realize he was talking about her hands. Everyone’s eyes start darting to her hands, the new subject of interest. People raise their hands to compare. “Oh my gosh, her hands are so much stubbier than mine.” “She was born like that?!” “I can’t believe I never noticed.” Words of shock and disgust pop out of everyone’s mouth one by one and Mia hears every last word of distaste. Frozen in embarrassment, she nervously laughs and moves quickly to the only subject she can think of, what homework there is to do. As she keeps talking, the feeling of anxiety slowly creeps away, and she finally feels confident that the subject will not re-emerge. After what seems to be forever, the bell rings for dismissal and she hastily packs her things to go. As she is about to leave the room, a sudden burst of words breaks the silence, “Bye sausage fingers!” Her body loses all will to move, and she stands there, with the feeling that she had just been shot out of nowhere. Realizing she is the last one standing in class, she quickly adjusts herself so no one will see the well of tears near her eyes. As she is walking to her mother’s car, step by step, her seemingly steel guard starts to rust away, exposing the weak, sensitive person she actually is. She pauses in her footsteps and reminds herself of what other people would think of her if she began crying in public. That mental image was all the strength she needed to carry on and as she gets in the car and her mother asks, “How was your day at school?”, she toughens up to say one word… “Great”.

The perception of her fat hands was new to Mia, and she did not know what to think. It was the first of many embarrassing moments to come for her. After a while, she bought into it—believed her hands were fat—and constantly compared her hands to others’. The desire for long elegant hands overwhelmed her that Mia asked her mother if there was such a thing as finger surgery. With a simple no, she gave up on any fix to her “problem” and continued to hide her hands in shame. She was still afraid that people would only remember her as the girl with pudgy hands. It seemed like every opportunity had escaped from her reach. Her mind digged deep and clutched onto the thoughts of being turned down for a job or even never finding a soulmate because of her repulsive hands. The only thing that seemed to await her was the doomed future.

The desire for a companion she could empathize with burned strong within her and at times, Mia felt like the monster Frankenstein had created, a freak. Overcome with thoughts of how others perceived her, she was left insecure and self-conscious. That incident had left her with pain that would never subside entirely and the lurking thought of what the next person she meets will think of her.

With the heavy toll this had taken on her, memories of the incident had left behind new irreparable scars, like dents on a car. Whenever Mia raises her hand, an impulsive fist rises instead of the open welcome hand. Her fist, unwilling to open to others, is a constant reminder of what she has become: closed and reserved. She tries to think that she is doing everyone else a good deed and hiding them from the hideous sight. Her walls have been built so high so that no one would repeat those same words, spoken to her. She can move on through life, and a safe cautious life like that suits her. No more aching pain, no more stinging tears, and no more public humiliation.

She still feels tossed around and beat up like how a child treats an imperfect toy. To her, she is that toy and her hands are the imperfection. Now and then, bits and pieces of the incident will appear in her life, and all she can do is brace herself, build up more walls, and move on. Sometimes, she completely forgets her hands and ignorance is bliss for a while, but as soon as her eyes lay on her hands, it is like she is not Mia anymore but “sausage fingers”.