Glass

Glass

By Phobias

Teddy bear remorse

         She watched the rain drop slither down the window pane like a snake winding through grass. Slowly she traced its path with her finger from the other side, concentrating to line it up perfectly in the fog of her warm breath.
“Clair, it’s time to take your pills,” her mother called from the brown stained doorway. Clair made no movement to indicate she had heard her mother but continued tracing on the window. Sighing, her mother left the room; her heels clicking on the floor like the seconds of a clock as she walked down stairs to the kitchen.
         After a few minutes Clair slowly stood and turned to see her own reflection in the big silver framed mirror hanging from her purple wall. She looked blankly back at herself, eyes devoid of everything bar a profound sadness that seemed to radiate from her very soul. She looked at her hair, what was once so shiny, full of body and the envy of all her friends was now tangled and greasy, hanging over her face like a mourner’s veil.
         Lifting her right arm up next to her face she turned it outward to look at the three inch pale scar, an alien ridge she was still not used to. Time seemed to stand still as she stood there looking at it, a mocking reminder of how she had failed in everything she had ever tried to do. She turned from the mirror and looked back at her room; the one place she had felt safe in now seemed as hollow and cold as her own reflection.
         As she fought the drug induced fog in her head she found herself gazing at an old teddy bear she’d had since she was a child. He looked old and worn now, his fur faded to an off light brown, one eye missing and an ear gone. She remembered how, as a child she had never wanted to go anywhere without him. He was her security bear, her best friend. He had lost his ear when she had taken him to a friend’s house. He had fallen into the grip of their demonic Shitzu, Puffy. She shook him and shook him until the perfect little ear ripped from his head and at the sound of the tearing threads Clair had burst into tears, but that was a long time ago now.
         She thought of how, over time, he had become less and less important to her and had become yet another piece of decoration for her section of the house. She felt oddly empathetic to the old teddy and couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for her actions. Clair turned from the bear and quietly walked out of her room, her bare feet making an almost inaudible patter as she made her way to the kitchen and her mother.

Cancer in the kitchen

         She didn’t really want to take the medication her mother was offering, but she knew it would help her to stop feeling the sadness that was burning inside her. The sadness that had bored its way into her heart like a cancer spreading through healthy tissue. Cancer, cancer, cancer. Cancer is one of those words, those dreadful words, that no one takes lightly. Clair felt like a cancer, a malignant tumour festering away her mother’s happy life just by being there.
          Her mother dropped two pills into her hand, gave her a glass of water and an encouraging smile. Clair watched the perfect little blue capsules roll on her palm and reflected on how she had come to this point in her life. Shards of memory flowed back to her in a mismatched order like a mental mosaic, at first making no sense to her at all but then, in a sudden moment of clarity, she saw the pattern before her. For the first time in months she began to remember.
         Clair had been sitting at the kitchen bench talking to her mother as she popped popcorn in the silver microwave, the appealing smell filling the house. Her mother had been bugging her about seeing her father,
‘The divorce has been tough on him, you should go and see him tonight,” she was saying. Clair nodded at her mother while she thought of how this woman in front of her had ruined her father, who now lived in a sleazy hotel.
         Immersed in this thought, she had been shocked back to life when her phone played an unimpressive rendition of Girls just want to have fun. She looked at the screen, a picture of her father stared back at her. She answered the phone. The only part of the conversation she could remember was her tearful father muttering “Honey I have cancer. I’m going to die”.
She dropped the phone on the floor and it shattered into a million pieces, like the mirror her father had tried to hang.

Encapsulating

         The memory of her fathers voice was not alone but was accompanied with many more ranging her entire life.Clair felt the tears begin to well in her eyes, that all too familiar sting, as she swallowed back a sob. She took her eyes from her pills, put them in her mouth and forced them down. The cool water filled her mouth and washed down her throat, she thought that it might look a little like a water slide from the inside.
         Slowly she walked through the house, gazing at the furniture around her. She remembered how she had fallen over in the hall way on the day they had moved in and split her lip open. Her father picked her up and rushed her into the bathroom to wash the blood away. She had watched the red water gurgle down the plughole, swirling like a whirlpool. She couldn’t have been anymore than six at the time; it hadn’t been long before her teddy lost his ear.
         Her mother, after seeing her lip, had driven straight to the shop to give get her an ice cream, “Don’t let her eat it in here, she’ll make such a mess,” She had said to Clair’s dad after she handed the ice cream to her daughter and kissed her on the forehead.
         She looked at the lounge. She had sat there when she messaged her brother on her mothers phone after her father had called her.
                   Dad + cancer
                    Comehome

She didn’t want to talk and couldn’t bring herself to type anymore. Her mum had given her two tablets, white capsules, “They will calm you down,” she had said.

White Out

         Clair embedded herself in the soft leather of her mother’s expensive couch. She faced the main windows looking out to an over grown and over sized back yard. She wanted a dog, had always wanted a dog, and even though they had enough room for three big dogs, her mother wouldn’t even allow her to have a small one. A dog would impact the sanctity of the house with muddy feet and stray hairs,“Absolutely not Clair,” her mother said, over and over again, to just about everything she ever asked for.
         The lounge room is all white. It reminded Clair of an operating theatre. The carpet, walls, TV, all the furniture, everything white. Like someone had come in with a huge can of fake snow and covered everything. It smelt funny too, like pine o clean. Disinfectant had always been her mother’s best friend.
         Hell for germs, that’s what this house is like. It’s hell for her as well. Clair looked out the window again and stared at the battered trees convulsing in the strong wind. As she sat there her gaze became less fixed, her eyes disjointing into memory rather than observation.
The sound of screaming tyres filled her ears, the harsh groan of metal and wood colliding, the glass splintering around her arm, the sharp sting of cold gliding through her skin, like a knife through butter, as she screamed and screamed and screamed. She saw white, lots of white. It engulfed her; filled all her senses. She couldn’t see anything but white.

Pine failure

         Five moths after her father rang her she had stolen her mother’s car. Her mother wouldn’t take her to the hospital to see her dad, even though the doctors had said he could die at any time.
“It will be too traumatic for you,” she had said, her blue doe eyes looking at her daughters, trying to feign concern.
         At midnight she had escaped her confines through her bed room window, her mother’s keys already in her hand. She snuck inside the white SUV, rolled the car down the drive way in reverse (she always knew watching TV would pay off) and once at the bottom and away from the house, started the engine.
         It roared to life, then spluttered and stopped. She tried again with the same result. She remembered what her mother had said to her the week before when she was driving Clair to the hospital, the last time she was supposed to see her father, the last time he could even attempt to walk.
“This damn car! Your bloody father got me this piece of crap and it has never ever started without the choke out, not even in the middle of summer”.
         Clair found the choke and pulled it out then tried the ignition again. This time the engine roared to life and, instead of spluttering, fell into a continual hum. She put the car into drive and sped off down the street towards the hospital. She never once looked at the Speedo while driving and hadn’t thought of how she would get into the hospital after hours, she just wanted to see her father that night, a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.
         As she sped down the long stretch or road connecting her town with the next she didn’t realise that there was an expanse of oil lining the pitch black road ahead. As her car touched the slicked gravel her mothers white machine began to take on a life of its own, fishtailing down the street. Clair, an inexperienced driver to say the least, had no idea what she could do to stop the car from its wild behavior. In a vain attempt to regain what little control she had to begin with she turned the wheel. Instead of behaving the car began to spin round and round, like an out of control merry-go-round.
         Clair looked out of the windshield the surroundings melded into one big blur until it all came to a sudden and violent stop.
The car had hit one of the tall thick pine trees on the side of the road, the passenger side and the trunk of the tree melded into one figure with a deafening crunch; the smell of pine filling her nostrils. She was thrown sideways in the car, and on the rebound her arm smashed through the driver side window, cutting deep into her flesh, and then there was nothing.
The next thing she knew she was being raced down a long white corridor, lights in the ceiling flicking past. Somewhere above her a man was speaking in a language she couldn’t understand and in the distance she could hear her mother saying “I’m here honey, I’m here”.
Clair thought of her father before she went into a deep and complete sleep.
She woke up hours later; her mother was sitting next to her holding her hand. She raised her head and looked at her mother; she noticed tears welling in her blue eyes.
“Oh god, honey, thank god your ok,” she said amid sobs,
“Where’s dad?” Clair croaked back,
“Oh Clair, I’m so sorry. Your dad….he can’t come. He fell into a coma early this morning, that’s why I didn’t want you to come here,’ her mother told her, her voice filled with emotion
Clair turned away from her and sunk beneath the white sheets. She closed her eyes and went back to sleep.
         Three days later her father died, his son the only person in the room. Clair was never able to see him. Her injuries had been serious; doctor’s orders were for her to stay in bed for a week. The day before her dad’s funeral she was discharged. His coffin had been made of pine.

Hot Chocolate

         With a shudder Clair came back to the present, her eyes wet. She looked at the trees again. She hated them, just like she hated herself. She sunk deeper into the white lounge and curled into a fetal position, hugging a big fluffy pillow.
         Her mother came into the room, a blanket in one hand, a cup in the other. She draped the white blanket over her daughter and placed the cup on the glass coffee table,
“Its hot chocolate,” she said and began to walk out of the room. Clair lifted up the brown mug and looked at her mother. She was cleaning the windows with a brand new dusting rag. This wasn’t the first time she had given Clair hot chocolate and it wouldn’t be the last. Every time Clair felt bad about anything her mother made her the special hot chocolate, when she had hurt herself, had the flu and even when she broke up with her first boy friend. Clair thought about the way she had treated her mother in the past, the things she had thought and the harsh words she had spoken to her,” Mum,” she said, voice shaking slightly, ”I love you”.
Her mother stopped dusting and turned towards her,
“I know you do,” she replied and continued to rub at the crystal clear windows.