Shattered Glass

       She just didn’t like the way she looked today. End of discussion. Period. Red hair sticking out in every direction, face pale, cheeks too round to be hers. Two seconds and boom—well, not boom—exactly. More like thud then crackle. The glass door of the medicine cabinet gave way easily to her fist. Got what it deserved. That’ll teach it. Only a couple of small pieces stuck in her hand. Didn’t hurt. Not much anyway. She pulled out the shards and dropped them in the sink with the others. “You should all stick together. That’s what friends do.” She laughed and wound a wad of toilet paper around her hand five, maybe six times. The shattered glass looked like a collage of glittering sin, dotted scarlet, displayed on a white porcelain canvas. She left it for Jason to see. Maybe he’d think she was artistic. No, anything that couldn’t be added on a calculator was worthless. Like her. Well, he’d just have to look at it anyway.

            She didn’t wake up till Jason shook her. “It’s 5:30.” Numbers, five, three, zero. Add them up you get eight. Subtract three and zero from five you get two. Oh, no, she was doing it, making numbers the most important! That must be how Jason’s mind worked. She wanted to tell him she knew. They could be happy now. She started to speak but he looked at her pajamas. “Have you been in bed all day?” That wasn’t right. He was supposed to ask if she’d been in bed for eight hours, five hours, one hour. Where were the numbers? Now that she understood, he was changing everything. But—the mirror. Maybe he’d want to count the pieces of broken glass. She grabbed his hand, led him to the bathroom.

            Pride surged through her as they looked at the light reflecting off the glass. Crystal. A crystal collage. This was her work of art. Jason could count it. An offering. He looked surprised—noticed her hand. The toilet paper had fallen off and dried blood bloomed on it. A second work of art. Two, count them, two. Bright red against pale white, like Mr. Williams’ red wheelbarrow and white chickens. But her blood wasn’t bright. Dried blood was dull. Two minus one is one. Only one work of art, the crystal collage. She stared at it, so did Jason. He must be counting. She would wait until he finished, try to explain that she’d figured it all out. He looked at her. “I’m going to call the doctor.” She patted his arm. She was sorry he felt sick on such a glorious day.