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Spiral
The green and red of the glass bottles crunch under my sneakers. The sound is brazen, intrusive, unwanted. I try to hop to the clear side of the street but only land into more shards. The noise tears through the leaden quiet of the night.
I force my eyes up from their usual place just in front of my feet. The street is empty, no distracting eyes to sink in. I am good at avoiding them, have always been. Today Ms. Mitchell asked us what our superpower is. If I had felt daring enough to raise my hand, I would have said, “evading omnipresent orbs.” Then some jittery laugh, perhaps? To show them, I’m not completely bonkers. They know that anyway.
The dim light of a lonely street lamp must look like the Sun for the flies and bugs. They are a whirlwind of flapping wings and bumping bodies. I lean back against a slightly wet wall. The dull glow of the lamp begins dancing on the edge of my vision. A kaleidoscope of yellow, and flies, and rue.
I probably should start moving. Mother must be waiting with her usual Friday fish casserole. Zeus must be lying in his usual position under the shoe rack, ready to take my legs captive as soon as I open the door. I don’t want to go.
We never get what we want. I stand up and start lumbering down the street.
The silvery bracelet on my right hand worries the tender skin of my inner wrist. The bracelet was my birthday present this year. When I get presents, I always feel this sweet, sweet ache between my ribs. Like a blunt knife strolling underneath the sternum. We sat around the fireplace that evening, hot chocolate and citrus muffins on our laps. After mother’s steps died away in her bedroom, I shuffled closer to the ingle. The dull misery in my chest slowly dissipated as the fiery flames kissed the silver of the bracelet. The sharp pain of the scorching metal meeting my skin scattered the rest of the sorrow.
The thing is, I’m not always sad. Sometimes I feel content. Sometimes when Zeus tries to do one of his weird, awkward backflips, I even giggle. Not the goosey giggle for my class, but the real hushed one. It’s just every tiny piece of cheer makes me feel like a burglar shamelessly sorting through other people’s things.
I don’t want to be a thief. My conscience is tearing at itself as it is. The glass is wailing under my feet.
I wonder if it would be easier to let go.
I force my eyes up from their usual place just in front of my feet. The street is empty, no distracting eyes to sink in. I am good at avoiding them, have always been. Today Ms. Mitchell asked us what our superpower is. If I had felt daring enough to raise my hand, I would have said, “evading omnipresent orbs.” Then some jittery laugh, perhaps? To show them, I’m not completely bonkers. They know that anyway.
The dim light of a lonely street lamp must look like the Sun for the flies and bugs. They are a whirlwind of flapping wings and bumping bodies. I lean back against a slightly wet wall. The dull glow of the lamp begins dancing on the edge of my vision. A kaleidoscope of yellow, and flies, and rue.
I probably should start moving. Mother must be waiting with her usual Friday fish casserole. Zeus must be lying in his usual position under the shoe rack, ready to take my legs captive as soon as I open the door. I don’t want to go.
We never get what we want. I stand up and start lumbering down the street.
The silvery bracelet on my right hand worries the tender skin of my inner wrist. The bracelet was my birthday present this year. When I get presents, I always feel this sweet, sweet ache between my ribs. Like a blunt knife strolling underneath the sternum. We sat around the fireplace that evening, hot chocolate and citrus muffins on our laps. After mother’s steps died away in her bedroom, I shuffled closer to the ingle. The dull misery in my chest slowly dissipated as the fiery flames kissed the silver of the bracelet. The sharp pain of the scorching metal meeting my skin scattered the rest of the sorrow.
The thing is, I’m not always sad. Sometimes I feel content. Sometimes when Zeus tries to do one of his weird, awkward backflips, I even giggle. Not the goosey giggle for my class, but the real hushed one. It’s just every tiny piece of cheer makes me feel like a burglar shamelessly sorting through other people’s things.
I don’t want to be a thief. My conscience is tearing at itself as it is. The glass is wailing under my feet.
I wonder if it would be easier to let go.
