If glass can shatter, so can I

Morgan C

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I never thought of it in this way. Shattering. It’s defined in the dictionary as broken into many pieces or damaged or destroyed. I’ve seen shattered glass many times. Once when my parents dropped a glass in the kitchen, or when I used to pass the abandoned builds on my street. The spider web patterns on the smooth and shiny surface fascinate me. I draw the lines in slow motion in my mind, and reverse them. I remember the glass; it’s a windshield. Time flows backwards. The miniscule and glittering shards flow out of my body and pick up from the seats. They slip back into the spider webs and then it’s clear again. I see myself. My eyes are tilted at another pane of glass, a buzzing computer, my phone. I’m no longer in reverse. I see the white lines of a crosswalk, and a middle aged man on the sidewalk. But then there was a second, a little figure. She was wearing a bright green raincoat and little red boots; her hair was braided into two little brown pigtails. She looked at me with wide eyes. My body swung forward from the thud, and the car screeched as I came to a halt. The moment went by with too little time. I don’t realize what happened until I focus on the red splotches on the shattered glass, and then I hear the screams. The screams of a man, the kinds of screams I’ve only heard in movies. They start small and then they flood in all at once. They are the screams of a father. A father who will never forgive himself. Tears stream down my face as I realize I will be the cause of a lifetime of guilt. The man will never go a day without remembering that time he wasn’t looking. It would be his fault. My feet crunch on the glass as I step forward and see the waterfalls coming from his eyes. He is shaking her and saying her name. It was Ally and it still would be Ally if it wasn’t for me. His tears shatter as they hit the ground and they mix with the red blood that was beginning to pool. He is rocking now and the paramedics approach him, he looks at them will glassy eyes. He is exposed, like a lion protecting his cub. They have to rip him off. He doesn’t realize his child is not his child anymore. It’s a body, a shell. It lies on the street with eyes wide open, blood dripping onto the braided pigtails. I shake as I watch. At the age of seventeen I can no longer be kind or innocent, I am a bringer of death. It doesn’t matter what my purpose was, is, or will be. I killed a child. Killer: a person or thing that kills. Thats me. It is then that I know: I will forever live and die as a killer. Another thought comes into my mind as I fall on my knees, breaking my fall with my palms. I used to question if a person could be shattered, made into only tired versions of themselves, and never able to put themselves together the same way. But now I know for sure. I’m a porcelain doll who has been dropped and split into little pieces. It’s quite apparent now: if glass can shatter, so can I.