Shattered Glass

Jessylane

"I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid, final flame." - James Joyce

-1-

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I suppose it should have been a blessing that I knew the plot.

It wasn't.

I suppose it should have been a kindness, this second life.

It isn't.

I suppose you expect me to be a hero?

I won't be.

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I'm three when I meet my first hero. We're on a derailed train, the cab squeals, the light flickers, the air is thick with sweat and people and smoke. The train is full of screams. I stare out the window as death comes again. Will it hurt this time? Will it ache?

Mama holds me to her chest, sobbing and squeezing. My little body, so new and different, trembles from the fear.

I want to live. I want to survive.

Then the hero appears. Bright and glorious and bold. He stops the train.

The strain of it kills him.

I stare at his dead body, vapor rising, eyes vacant and cold. Mama shakes, thanking invisible gods, rocking on the floor. I stare and stare and stare. I want to live. I meet my first hero on the pavement of the ground, blood leaking from his nose.

I won't ever be him.

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Having a quirk is like having magic.

It's like living in a dream.

I touch the glass and it bends to my whim, curling and folding in on itself in beautiful prisms. I practice, I play with it, I make wobbly shaped figurines, I shatter thin shafts, I grow crystalline rocks. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, in the world or the other.

I sit in my room, alone, for hours, dragging my hands over sharp corners and fragile layers. I build and destroy and create until I'm so exhausted I can't anymore, until I fall asleep cradled in its refractions. And in its shimmering, complex depths, I find freedom.

I find escape from the near-constant fears of death.

And I love it.

It's the first thing I've ever loved in this life.

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I'm five when I first become a thief.

It's something small, we're at the store and I notice a hairbow made with silver glitter. I want it, so I demand it.

"Mama, I want that."

She glances over, checks the price tag, and blanches. I frown when she puts it back.

"No baby, it's too expensive."

I glare.

"It's not an outfit, it can't be that expensive."

She narrows her own eyes and I pout, annoyed at her stubborn face. She's not getting it. I can already tell. She shifts, arms folding and slouching towards one side. I turn and cross my own arms, nose in the air. She actually has the audacity to humph at me.

So I walk away.

And then, when she's not looking, I manipulate the glass in my pocket to grab it, breaking off the plastic barcode tied on one end. Anxiety jerks in my chest, hot and itchy, as I manipulate my fingers to control the glass. It forms a bubble and rolls on the ground, spinning through the different racks to avoid shopping carts and attention. I have to stop twice when Mama looks my way.

Then it touches my foot. And the feeling of success is delicious and strong. I lean down like I'm tying my shoe and stuff it in my jacket before she notices. She holds up a shirt and smiles before showing it to me.

"What about a new shirt?" she asks, showing me the pink top. I blink, wide-eyed, at it before smiling.

"Sure."

When we finish shopping and she heads out the door, she pats my head with a particularly fond smile.

"What?"

"I'm so proud of you," she says. I raise an eyebrow.

"Why?"

She grins.

"For not throwing a fit. You're such a good little girl!"

I feel only a moment of guilt before pushing it down and stuffing my hands in my pockets. The hairbow is warm to the touch and I grin.

"So can we get ice cream?"

She laughs and nods.

"Sure princess!"

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Stealing is an addiction.

It's an addiction I quickly lose myself to. The anxiety in my chest, the sweet fear of getting caught, and that blossoming warmth of success are invigorating. They're delicious. It's like a breath of fresh air in a stale, fetid box. I crave it. For the first time in years, I feel alive.

So I steal more.

Instead of spending time making flowers and figurines with my glass, I make glasses and pinchers. I learn to wind glass strands in my hair and circle glittering beads on beautiful bracelets. I practice manipulating strands of glass so thin they're nearly invisible to the eye, I practice warping camera lenses without looking, I practice lying.

I keep a stash under my bed of all the trinkets I take. The silver bow glitters in the back, a pretty necklace, a glittering chain. Nail polish, eyelash extensions, my most daring act, a pair of shoes.

And so, I'm seven when I discover the next level of my powers. I'm spinning glass into thin, delicate threads when a piece shatters and breaks against my fingers. I squeal, quickly snatching away the finger, but the shard is coated in the red liquid. I stare in fascination as the liquid catches in the light, reflecting pink.

And then I manipulate it.

The glass captures and collects the blood, twisting it like dye into different, beautiful lens. I end up dripping a bit more when the extra glass dilutes the color. The pink light beautiful as it passes through.

I touch the glass, and for the first time, my fingers slip into it. I stare.

And then I grin.

Spinning the blood-soaked glass into a platter the size of my hand, I break it in half. I put in a finger and grin as it appears on the other half.