The Shattered Glass

One run-of-the-mill, not-so-unusual day when it was time and her life seemed strong and right a curious knot appeared in the middle of her back tender to the touch with no outright visible cause

She paid it no mind as “bruises always heal” and her days were made busy with happiness and life with stars and sunshine and dreams coming true to fret about a not-so-bothersome knot which truth be told could likely be an old sports injury

except,   she never played sports all that much. So too-long ignored, that curious knot became a bedtime throb which disturbed her dreams with pinches and pokes when she rolled in her sleep, and made dreams of knots, and glass – an unbroken shot-glass

That curious knot morphed into a hard knot by day clutched at her spine like a hand and punched like a fist when her love pulled her close and hugged her too tight, when she lifted her baby girl onto her hip

Now, that knot had a voice which spoke with each painful jab It whispered starts and snippets of a worry-some story: a tale of moving pictures with no audible sounds; a raw sensation nightmare with darkness all around and tragic endings that were always the same:

A ruined heap on a mattress with her soul breaking open with wide-open-mouth cries to the retreating heavens who hid themselves behind concrete wood and stone with no reaction to her heart’s anguished Whys or to the shatter, of a shot-glass flung against a wall

A glass, hard against her back all those years ago left a ghostly mark to slumber and wake one day when it was time and her life was strong and right. That mark would become a knot, to ache and throb and make itself known to remind her of that night

A night of twisted horror, buried no longer pulled from her memory to snake down her spine and whittle its way through a small knot on her back, spilling shivers to stand soft hairs on end and send limbs of truth to wrap her in their cold embrace:

The claim in his sweat that he stained on her face The smell of rust on him and his vodka breath. The acrid taste of fear that came up in her throat to make her choke on words that meant only No.

And between her back and the sheet, a shot-glass she wished would break and pierce her skin so that pain and that scar, would be the only things to recall not him, not his hands on her wrists, not his boots not his weight on her hips, not his sick words,

as each rock of his hips stole pieces of her soul: confidence gone, trust gone, hope gone, her self – gone until all that was left was want and need. There, he said as he straightened her skirt, No one ever has to know.

Alone and still, with the shot-glass that failed still intact between her and the sheet, with walls that judged and windows that watched as her fingers curled around glass to shatter her hate and bury it all in a small hard knot on her back.

~*~

What was kept unknown in the dark is brought to light to put names to shadows that had haunted her life. So many years lost in a numbing haze, as her mind judged her undeserving of the love, care and joy that she sought and was given, by those she learned to push away from her dark.

Each day now dawns anew as it is time and her life is strong and right. She’s learning that she is worthy of happiness and life of sunshine, healing and dreams hopeful and true, and can let go of the hold of that once-so-bothersome knot, which truth be told, will never again be the author of her story.

Phoenix, October 2014