Piece of Glass
"Can't believe that I did it again ...
Wake me up from this nightmare.
Cause this monster's wasting me away and
taking my days."
The mouse was on his side. In bed. Groggy and cold (so cold) and not knowing the time. Not caring, really, what the time was, but ... at the same time ... caring. Pull and push ... tug of war. Between the vibrancy of life, his will ... to know. To be aware. And between the indifference and despair that was leaking through the pinholes in his heart. Flooding him. Slowly sinking him.
Was it (already) time to wake?
Was their time left (to dream)?
Or was it time (at last) to ignore ... the encroachment of day? To fade away?
There was no way to say ...
For the clock was out of view. The clock, the alarm clock/radio, was out of view ... and on the floor. Unplugged. On its side. Surrounded by shards of a candy cane. The glinting, sharp white of the mint ... the bloody hues of the red stripes. Representing the blood of Christ. The white ... the purity. Those shards, that candy cane ... in pieces on the floor.
The mouse, there in the dark ... knowing that, remembering it ... could only pray that his faith did not go that way. Did not meet that same end. Did not end up in pieces on the floor. As the candy cane had the night before ...
... when the mouse, pacing, pacing, had been sucking, sucking on the candy cane. Unable to keep himself from biting, biting.
Crunch-crunch ...
The blast of mint. The sugar ... but not so sweet. A cold, wintery sort of sugar.
A blood rush.
To the head.
To the heart.
And he inhaled sharply. Feeling the cold that resulted ... feeling that chill.
And he swallowed. Eyes closed. Swallowed and savored that. The first bit of ... food, of anything, of any sustenance ... he'd ingested all afternoon and night.
He crunched. Couldn't stop. Couldn't suck.
Chomped it up like a pretzel stick.
And unwrapped another.
And did the same.
Pacing all the while. This way, that way ... back and forth. To the wall, across the floor ... and to the other wall. An eye's-blink journey, thin, ropy tail trailing like a string ... and yet ... as he went, as he moved, he could only think of how long it had been ... since he'd had someone to be close to. Physically, emotionally, realistically close to ... to look them in the eyes. To be able to make eye contact with someone. When was the last time he'd made eye contact with someone? And to be made to laugh ... when was the last time he'd laughed?
The mouse kept no mirrors in his room.
He didn't wish to see his reflection. Didn't wish to ... see the blank eyes. The gauntness. Didn't wish to see how awkward he was. Didn't wish to acknowledge it.
Didn't wish to think of all the loves gained and lost ... didn't wish to dwell on the fact that it was him. It was his fault. My fault.
What did I do wrong?
Why don't they like me?
Why ... can't ... why can't I make it work? Why can't I reach anyone?
What is wrong with me?
Love ... intimacy ...
It was softer than a canon blast, but it's effects ... did much longer last. He needed it ... like a meal and bed. Wanted it like a hole in his head.
Love had broken him down. Had reduced him to sobs.
Love had given him hope. Brief fireworks of joy.
Love had tied him in a knot.
The mouse still believed, somehow, that it would be love that pulled him out of this. Pulled him through this. Someone. Not just anyone. Someone. And it would ... that love ... it would be his medicine.
It would heal him.
"Every day, I live a bit less.
One night leads to another.
Even if I went back, would they
recognize me?
Or criticize me?"
Or would it?
It hadn't before. He'd felt it before, and it hadn't ... and ... so, there was his faith ... he clung to his faith. Always would. His hope ...
If there ... if it wasn't there, that hope of eternal life, rest, joy. Salvation. Of being redeemed. Of being able to live beyond all the small disgraces of all the times and places that he never really left. If that promise of rest, of divine purpose ... wasn't infused into his life, the mouse ... without that, the mouse didn't believe he could have any hope.
The hope of Heaven, of rest, of joy ...
It kept him ... barely alive. Barely.
Alive.
And maybe that would pull him through. If not love, faith. But if not faith, what ... was there left?
Will? Resolve? Self?
He was far beyond the ropes of those flimsy anchors ... that had long since washed to sea.
And as he paced in this room (his room) chomping on candy canes like they were a drug ... as he manically walked back and forth in an unwavering line ... the mouse thought of the morning. How, after his shower, he'd caught his eyes in the mirror. The blue-grey of his eyes. How he'd caught them for a second. A split second. How he'd thought ...
"Who are you that lies when you
stare at my face?
Telling me that
I'm just a trace
of the fur I once was?
Cause I just can't tell if you're telling the truth
or a lie.
On you, I just can't rely.
After all, you're just a piece of glass."
The mouse had thought those things. In the morning. Had hated his reflection. And, in turn ... he realized ... hated himself.
Don't think, don't think, don't think ...
Thinking only makes it worse.
Dull yourself. Numb yourself. Wish yourself away.
In the afternoon, he'd thought very little. Had tried to ignore the dull aching coming from his body. Had tried to rationalize his loss of energy. Had tried to justify ... this. This. All of this. Had tried not to think, tried not to play and replay all the scenarios in his head. All the ways of ...
"Still, I control this nightmare.
When I call, it answers.
But I can't tell it when to come or
when to stay."
And all the freedom in the mouse's soul could not resist the dark temptation of those sweet, loosened lips ... the lips of pain. Of suffering. Of ... discord. All the freedom the mouse contained ... in all of it, there was no resisting that.
And why?
Why did he do this to himself? Was it the simple depression? The sharp anxiety? The constant compulsions? His forbidden, confused sexuality? Was it all those things ... that had led to this? To this desperate act of self-destruction?
Was he punishing himself?
Why did he nibble at the food ... and leave it on the plate?
Why did he run until he couldn't breathe? Losing weight he couldn't afford to lose?
Why did he go beneath the surface of his conscience ... his warmth ... go beyond it, to a deeper, darker part of himself, making deals with silky, slithering threads ... getting wrapped up in them. Caught in a web of something dark. Something down inside of him ... something dark.
Something.
Something he could not fully comprehend.
Maybe he knew that the true him, the true mouse ... was too gentle, too queasy ... to realize that he, that Field ... was the problem. The mouse, himself, was the problem. And when there was a problem, it needed to be neutralized. But the shy and loving Field would never do that. Would never risk Hell ... or such pain. Afraid of pain. And who would want to neutralize such a shy, gentle mouse? Who would finish him off?
He would have to do it himself.
So, the darker parts of his mind ... had to burrow. Had to work behind his consciousness. To whisper things to his mind. To his ears.
Maybe he could indirectly kill himself.
Maybe he could do it in such a way that he could be in denial about it.
Maybe it would get so bad ...
... and be too late.
And, when he was gone, maybe the pain would stop ...
Or maybe not.
Maybe this was the loophole to killing himself and ... avoiding Hell ... maybe ... it was a quick loophole into Heaven.
Or maybe it was none of those things.
Maybe it was simply ... sad.
The mouse was ... being controlled by too many forces. Too many versions of himself.
He could no longer be sure ... who he was.
The mirror lied.
He knew ... the mirror lied, and ... when he caught sight of it, of that reflection, he had to look away. The lie was too great. Too strong. Like looking into the sun. It burned.
"Don't talk ... listen ...
Hold me tighter ...
Stay with me just for a while ...
Until the sun shines, stay with me ... "
He longed to be held.
"Hold me," he whispered to the dark. Breathing ... into the dark. "Please ... dear God ... hold me tighter ... please ... "
And, in his room, on his fourth candy cane ... the mouse's mind was throbbing. Head was throbbing. Stomach wanting more. Body wanting more. Pleading, begging ... telling him he was smarter than this. Telling him he was worth more than this ...
Telling him of his brightness ... of his spark ...
But, in his room, in such a dark, the mouse could barely believe it. Any of it. Could barely remember ... when it had been different. When he hadn't felt this pain.
Had it been years?
It was consuming him.
Field had ceased to eat his meals ... and, in turn, became the meal of his own pain. It was eating him away. And saving the core of his heart for very last. For dessert.
Maybe ... maybe ... maybe he had the gifts that everyone spoke so highly of ... funny, though, how nobody really wanted them ... not in any tangible, lasting way. Not in any ...
... time ... eyes catching the time. The time on the clock as he paced.
After midnight.
And Field squeaked. He had to be up at seven.
That meant going to bed.
To a vacuum. A void. A dreamless dead.
No rest.
Waking or otherwise. No rest. And the mouse could scurry to another corner of the globe, somehow ... could try and run away, but it would follow him.
This would follow him.
Wherever he went ... he was there. He couldn't get away from himself.
And his words, daily, fell to the floor ... like tears. His words ... so fast, so furious, so full ... flew and ... fell. And dried away. His words, so eager and so ... many of them. He sent them out like messengers. Hoping someone, anyone would hear them and ... send their own words back.
How he longed for those words to float, to be buoyant ... as if on a crystal sea. To float and sail to someone. To be welcomed. His words, his mind, his soul, his heart, his body ... his own self ... to send out a message. To be welcomed. To float into someone's harbor.
To find an anchor ... with someone.
To be rescued from this sickness.
And the clock ... right now, the clock read ... the time. The time. It read the time, and ...
Field was sick of time, and ...
Pacing, pacing, pacing ...
Crunching on that candy cane. Ravenous.
He could feel the last of himself ... being slowly stolen to the night, and ... the candy cane half eaten, he exhaled. His breath was shaky. And he still felt empty. The candy cane wasn't enough. It was ... a blip. A five-second boost.
And the time. The time was taunting him.
Time ...
You're older. So old. 21 ... that's old. That's forever. You're not young anymore. You've failed ... at relationships. Failed with ... your family ... failed ... out of school.
All the failure.
Your time is running out ...
Your time ...
Time was taunting him.
His body was taunting him, too. Hungry ... wanting him to finish that candy cane. Crying for him to finish it. Even when it knew that the candy cane wouldn't really help. Wouldn't really satiate this.
Field, in the middle of his room, knees shaking, covered his ears, feeling ... he was being taunted. Everything ... like the Devil was gunning for him ... and was succeeding.
The Devil, the ultimate predator ... was hunting this mouse.
Darkness was the predator of this prey.
And Field, candy cane in paw, quietly shaking (and quietly crying), punched the clock ... the candy cane shattering upon impact, and his paw smashing the clock to the floor, where it sailed, clattered, and came unplugged from the wall. And the shards of the candy cane splintered ... and glinted as they became strewn across the floor.
Like glass.
The mouse, heaving (for breath, for sustenance, for peace, for answers, for ... life) ... the mouse ... panted, feeling liable to pass out. Feeling a bit dizzy. He stumbled to his bed and flopped down on it, on his empty stomach ... sobbing quietly, clutching at the plush on his bed ... burrowing into the pillows. Shivering. Body unable to protect him from the chill in the air ... thinly shivering.
"Just give me one more day," was his whisper. His plea. His prayer. "Dear God, please ... please," he sobbed. "Just ... give me ... another day ... please," he went ... before losing his words. Losing them to a shaky quiet. Breathing, breathing ...
Maybe tomorrow ... he would get better. Maybe he would ... a miracle would happen. And maybe he would heal.
Maybe.
Or maybe tomorrow would be another yesterday. Another today.
Maybe tomorrow was another piece of glass.
The mouse, not knowing, at the mercy of his demons, fell into a semblance of sleep.
Praying, "Just one more day ... "