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Shattered Glass
By Lisa Steffen
There I stood, standing in the mist of shattered glass. Who I was, my
perceptions of self, was broken into a thousand pieces lying on the floor. Then
you came, crushing the shards beneath your heals, leaving a fine gray powder for
me to clean up. Leaving me alone on my knees, collecting the remains of my
face, trying to glue the bits and parts into some semblance of reality.
I look
around for help, a shadow on the floor telling me someone has come in or hidden
nearby, someone who saw and understood. No one is there hiding, no one is there
watching, seeing, understanding. I call out, not a yell, just to ask for
someone to hear me and reply. No one does. I keep wondering, what happens now?
The face I put together on the floor can’t be mine. Those lines and wrinkles,
those sad blue eyes. The woman there is old, older than my twenty years. I
don’t like that face, or the story those eyes whisper. Is that how people see
me, is that how I see me? I don’t want to be that woman, I don’t know if I am
that woman. I don’t… I don’t want to be that old, I don’t want people to see
me that clearly.
I kick the mirrored face. I stomp on it, screaming a loud names I have been
called, try to break what I have put together, but now it’s indestructible. I
throw it in the closet and slam the door, leaning heavily on its wood surface.
I refuse to believe that it’s me. Pushing away, I go to the window and pull
back the curtains to stare out into the night, seeking comfort in the shadows
that hide the land. Instead I see her, the old woman looking at me from the
darkness. Damn, the night used to be my friend, a comforting presence I could
always turn to, the many possibilities in the darkness. I turn back to my
bright, cheerful room; a room as false as the face the mirror used to show, the
face now gone in the braking of the glass. Anger fills me and I start ripping
down the lies filling the room. It isn’t me; none of this is me!
The bed is wrecked, the pillows are now flat, the mattress destroyed. The books
are off the shelves and most have lost their covers. The walls are empty and the
curtains look like a cat with very sharp claws has gotten to them. The clothes
are out of the closet and dresser; they now form a pile in the middle of the
room. They are soaking in the bottle of brandy I keep on the top shelf, the
bottle I sip from as the sun dusts away the darkness. My Zippo lighter is
waiting on the floor.
I am standing in front of the shattered mirror, starring at a face I thought I
knew. The angles of the jaw and cheekbone, the shape of the eyes with the
twisted corners, the large forehead covered by a mop of bangs; it’s like I’ve
never seen it before. The girl in the mirror is a stranger to me more stranger
than the old woman I first saw. I slam my fists into her face, again and again
until she cracks and falls to the floor leaving nothing for me to reflect. I
collapse to the ground, feeling and seeing nothing.
I lie there for a long time, just me and the fragments of her. I didn’t destroy
her, my anger only made smaller versions of her. There’s one by my face. She’s
large and sharp; the tip is like a knife. I caress the shard with my hand, it
draws blood but I don’t feel it. I notice my knuckles are also bloody but they
don’t hurt. I can’t feel anything, I see my body moving but I can’t feel the
textures of my skin.
I like the feeling, like no one can harm me now. I want to stay this way, this
empty. To close my eyes and slip into the darkness that has always been inside
me, giving up, giving in. I can feel the night reaching for me, pulling me into
its arms. I want to be there, my entire being longs for the feel of someone
else’s arms around me, holding me. The night is offering to never leave me, to
always be there, to always hide me. I want to accept.
I open my eyes; they focus on the Zippo. The light catches the words carefully
printed there, I can barely read it from my position. Close your eyes, child,
and sleep/Let the night take you in./Nothing can hurt you in your dreams/Take
this time to relax/The morning is on its way. I reach over and clasp the
lighter in my fist, struggling to bring it to rest on my heart. I close my eyes
again but the words won’t leave me. I hear the night’s song, asking me to
embrace it…I long to, I really do.
My eyes open again and I gather my strength. It takes a long time to manipulate
my body into a sitting position. I stay that way for a while; resting,
searching for more strength within a bone weary body. I feel every bit the age
of the old woman, the old woman longing for eternal rest. It takes a lot of
strength to pick myself up and get to my feet. Shear determination gets me
stumbling to the window seat where I collapse.
There’s no more strength in my body all I can do is lean against the wall and
rest. I look down at my bloody hands; one is holding the Zippo lighter. I turn
it over, flicking it open and listen as it snaps shut. Again and again I hear
the click as it opens, the scrape of the ignition, the flash of heat, the snap
shut. I look down at its shiny back; it doesn’t reflect my face, only wavy
lines of light and dark. That is who I am; a faceless image of light and dark.
My other hand is clasping the knife sharp piece of mirror. The strange girl
has sad blue eyes but she’s smiling up at me. I turn my gaze to the window to
find the old lady hiding in the shadows; she’s smiling too. I look up at the
moon but I can’t see it for the cloud coverage. It’s really dark outside. The
sky is blacker than the shadows that hide the old woman. I still hear the
night’s song but there’s another melody playing now as well. It’s softer than
the night’s song and its haunting sound draws me more deeply than the night’s
soft whistle. I close my eyes to listen better. My arms wrap around my body
and my hands tighten around their treasures. My face turns toward the east, for
the first time I hear the song of the morning. I smile as I listen and wait for
the sun to arrive.
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