Broken Pieces

Sunset

It wasn't a piano or a xylophone, but I was making music. A whole range of glasses, filled with different amounts of water, each one making its own sweet sound. My fingers were sore from rubbing the rims, trying to find the right note or melody that was inside my head. I probably should have chosen glasses that were all the same size and shape, but the mis-matched symphony I'd created felt more accurate.

My phone buzzed beside me and I wiped my pruny fingers off before answering.

"Hey Morgan, how's the weather?"

"Beautiful, but you'd know that if you'd come with us," they answered. I could hear the many unasked questions and was grateful they didn't press further.

"I'm glad you got there safely."

"Are you sure you won't join us?" Their voice was tinted with worry. I smiled. It was nice to know they cared.

"No, but thank you for checking on me. This is just what I need. Some space and quiet to get these sounds out. Besides, you won't be bothered by my mess this way."

"I'm always happy to help clean up, you know that. Just... be safe, ok?"

"I will. I promise. You've got the number to my doctor and therapist and you know I'm doing ok or I wouldn't have let you leave me here." I tried to make my voice light and reassuring.

"You make sure to call or text if you need anything."

"Yes. Call and text. Send a meme or three."

Morgan sighed. "Ok, well. I love you and I'll talk to you soon."

"Have so much fun." I turned to set my phone down, but I saw something out of the corner of my eye and my fingers slipped. The phone tumbled out of my grip, clipping the edge of one of the glasses.

I was still reaching for it, hoping to stop it before it got wet, but as the glass shattered, my hand moved through the space that had been safe just a moment before. Now, glass sharper than a knife sliced my palm.

"Shit, fuck, shit," I said, snatching my hand back, cradling my wrist with my uninjured hand. My fingers closed in a fist, sending searing pain across my skin. I forced myself to relax so I could assess the damage, but my vision started to swim. Blood dripped from my hand to the deck.

No. I felt cold deep in my bones. No more blood. I'd been here too many times. No more blood. I promised myself. No more. I looked at the glasses, some with pinkish water now, and began to shake. Not again. Broken glass on the wood. Cold sinking into me from my bare feet on the deck. A skeletal face.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Nightmares and reality had too much in common to sort out the difference, but I wasn't going to relive that night. I'd patched up plenty of my own cuts and scrapes over the years. There was no need to panic. I could handle this. I'd worked so hard to handle this.

I was still bleeding. The cut wasn't deep, but it was long. I needed to clean it. Wash it. Get a bandage. I needed to move.

The wind was too loud, shaking the trees and making them whisper at me. I needed to move, to get somewhere safe. It wasn't safe here. Glass on the deck in front of me. Blood on the deck. It wasn't safe.

Sweat beaded up on my upper lip, but I was cold, shaking with it. Though it was summer outside, in my head, it was early spring, a lifetime ago. That night, the blood on my hands wasn't mine. Trembling and terrified, I'd tried to rouse my mother from where she lay. As for my father, with glass through his eye, I did as I'd always done. I tried to ignored him.

The wind was warm, but I couldn't feel it. I was frozen through, unable to move, watching blood drip from my hand and pool on the deck. It would make a new stain. I'd scrubbed and scrubbed and painted over the stain my tiny hands had left on the railing. That night, with hope in my heart, I'd looked to the creek, trying to see the hero who had rescued me. The strange skeleton-like man who ended my nightmare.