Floating in a Sea of Glass

[Serena_Charlotte]

Floating in a Sea of Glass
I live my life in twenty-four hour increments. My entire world is a glass jar, through which I see clearly the other side, albeit distorted and discolored. There's nothing but myself inside the jar, but sometimes I see other people on the outside. The women wear frilly dresses and golden, sparkling masks. The men are decked in tight tight tuxedos and large shoes. They dance. They could dance for hours. They could dance to any type of music. They could even dance to silence. That's what remained most of the time. Silence.
…
…
I’m lying. I'm sure you can tell. There's no frilly dresses on the outside. No festivities.
I'm all alone. I wouldn't even remember if I wasn't. I said it before. I live life in twenty-four hour increments. That wasn't a lie. What if I told you that I was a princess? Sometimes I am. Nobody can tell me otherwise. I wouldn't remember what I was yesterday. It's gone. Today, I'm a ballerina. I'm the prima ballerina. A Russian prima ballerina. There's roses at my feet. The smell of formaldehyde doesn't exist. I only smell roses. Pink ones. Red ones. White ones.
Black ones.
I wake up on a haze, unsure of what's going on on the outside. Something definitely is going on, that's not a lie. People are staring at me, writing things down on wooden clipboards. Planks are made of wood. I'm a pirate. Captured by the enemy. I am imprisoned under their ship. I'm bound and gagged with a dirty rag. I can smell the formaldehyde, but I shake it off. If I smell it then I'll remember. If I remember, then I'll die. And then I'll drown in it.
I don't like being a pirate prisoner. I shake off the illusion. Could you tell I was lying? Probably. I was never a good liar. I was too imaginative, they said. I was too wild. That's what landed me in the situation I am now. I don't like thinking about the past. I was given a gift. That's why it's called the present. Looking back will only slow me down. It could only lead to death.
…
…
Sometimes I hear voices. Voices float to me like I'm in the middle of a deep sleep. I see distorted figures through the glass. I turn my back on it and close my eyes. I'm an astronaut. Walking on the moon. No. I can't imagine it. The voices are coming too loud. I know exactly where I am and why I am here.
I'm in my room. In the corner. There's a blade in my trembling hand, but I end up dropping it in fear. The door is locked from the inside; I can’t have anyone coming in. The memory fades. I can feel tears in my eyes, and a strange warmth around my shoulders. I turn away from that too. It's tempting, always, to accept it. My fate, I mean. But I also can't bring myself to accept the alternative.
My mother was a wonderful woman. She loved to comfort me. She got frustrated when I wouldn't talk to her. I couldn't, I thought, because I didn't want her to be disappointed in me. I was wimpy in my previous life. I let myself be taken advantage of by other people. I didn't feel good about myself. Now, I'm better. Even though I'm in a glass jar, my life is happier. I can be anything I want.
Memories come floating to me sometimes, dangerous ones. I remember making cookies with my mom, fetching bedroom slippers for my dad. I remembered playing checkers with my brother.
A voice floats to me from the distance. “Baby girl, I know you had some trouble. I get that it was hard for you. I get it.” The voice sighed. “I miss you. We all do. I love you. Just come back to us.” I turn away from the voice. It's getting more persistent. I've forgotten all the other things they've said. That was all yesterday. I don't remember yesterday.
Another, more feminine, voice floats towards me. It was sobbing. “Please! Please, God! Don’t take my daughter away from me.” I wanted to reach out to it. The faint smell of formaldehyde came through with the voice. Tears were streaming down my face now. I pull away. I'm a doctor, a vet, a firefighter, an assassin, a clown at a teenager’s party, anything that's not myself. Another voice, low and squeaky, clearly in the harsh throes of puberty.
“Hey… I don't really know what to say. Mom told me to talk to you, get out my last goodbyes. They don't think you're here anymore. Just hoping for some kind of miracle.” I sat crisscross apple sauce across from him. His face was distorted by the glass. “I miss you. And I'm sorry. For never stopping them. I should have, even though you told me not to. Now you've done this.” I did this? “I… need you.” The voice is cracking. “I need you. You know that quote you used to talk about? ‘Today is the only day. Tomorrow is gone’? I didn't want to tell you this at the time, but I think it's important to look back. If we can't see yesterday, then how are we supposed to fix today? We need to see yesterday in order to shape our today. No, we can't just forget yesterday. Not everything is bad. I know you were happy in your own way. You have good memories too! You can't just throw that away! Just come back! Come back so I can smack you!”
The smell floods my senses now. I breathe in as if for the first time. There's a tube in my throat and I choke. It's quickly removed, though. My throat is scratchy, arms heavy. My chest hurts. Then I open my eyes. The lids are heavy and somewhat sticky. Blood rushes into my face. I need to pee. The light is blinding.

[DATo]

Great story Serena and beautifully written! I like the way you tease the reader with mystery till the last paragraph and the gradual pacing, by degrees, of bolder hints until the final revelation. I really love a good twist ending in a short story. A good one is hard to come by but I think you pulled it off well.

Thanks so much for sharing this very entertaining and poetically penned story.