Page 45 of Hearts Etched in Glass
She would sit in front of the mirror and question everything.
Question why I wasn’t good enough.
Why I had to earn love.
Wishing I could be perfect like my brothers.
Then maybe. Maybe my parents would love me.
See me.
The anger resurfaces as I ignore my protesting legs and sprint towards the bathroom, slamming my fist into the mirror, causing it to shatter.
Shards of glass surround me, as I feel the pressure building. The encased emotion boiling over from the kettle being burned.
The tension unbearable within my body, my soul screaming to release the pressure from within.
The wound reopened within my knuckles and blood is trickling from my fingertips and onto the bathroom countertop.
Taking a three-inch shard, I study the sides to make sure it would be a good fit to give aclean cut.
I choose my device and then prepare a washcloth, ridding myself of my hospital attire. Then scrub my thigh of choice with soap and water, remembering how the ease of water helps aid the blade cut smoothly across the skin.
Sitting back down on the floor beside my bed, I take in one long, deep inhale, feeling my chest expand to capacity.
I grasp the shard in between my fingers and cut three straight lines across my right thigh. It isn’t deep enough to cause substantial harm, but just enough to alleviate the pressure inside. I feel the pain slowly and only subtly leave with the slow rolling blood that tracks across the inner portion of my thigh.
I give myself a small chuckle, realizing the irony.
Bobby would be so disappointed I broke our promise.
Chapter 23: Tilly
Hurt,Johnny Cash
I sit staring at the darkened ceiling, the sun setting on another glorious day. Staring at the same four walls I’ve seen for the last twenty-four hours, I feel hopelessness settle in my chest.
No one has come back to see me. Not even to check on me.
They have let me rot.
Rot in hopes I’ll turn into the vessel they once tried to groom me to be.
I stay laying on theground.
I’ve cut myself a couple more time on my other thigh and two times on my left wrist.
Studying the ceiling I observe that the middle comes together similar to the top of a bird cage.How fitting.
My glass birdcage.
Where my family can observe as their love and adoration poisons my spirit and rots me from the inside out.
The sound of the small opening on the door, shutters open, but it isn’t Meryll’s voice, I hear. It is my mother’s.
“Have you calmed down yet?” She has the audacity to ask.
I don’t have the energy to glance over at her wretched face.
