Like Glass

Copyright © 2023 by Sylvia WildeAll rights reserved.ISBN: 979-83-79188-5-35Cover design by JC FernándezThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.www.leftfieldpublishers.com Dedicationfor L Part One Chapter OneDarkness envelops me, an unnatural embrace.I stand motionless, disoriented and unnerved, willing myself to stay calm. It’s fine. I’m fine. I press my eyes shut as if to deny reality. But when I open them, all I see is expanse; all I feel is fear. Before me lies a sea of unknown, hemming me in, cutting me off. I hold my breath, muscles taut, even as my chest pulses—a frantic beating, like something within me is trying to escape. Escape, I muse. If only. But I can’t. Not from this. Perhaps it’s all I have left—memories and nightmares and regret, commingling into this eerie abeyant state where I now exist as if suspended in time and space. It’s some sort of personal purgatory; I’m held captive, yes, but never quite consumed. Always, always, I feel it: the terror of what’s to come, and of all that came before. I extend my hand into the inky murk, eyes squinting, searching. The darkness lies thick, almost tangible. I breathe it in. Then out. I wait, and I remember. Then a sound. Movement. An exhalation. A tremor moves down my body. Someone is here, lurking in the shadows, hidden in the periphery—waiting.The pressure rises inside me—intensifying, building, as if to some dark crescendo, as if to some undeniable end. This then is terror. I know who it is. The realization reverberates within my mind. I know. I know. I know. Perhaps I have always known. Chapter TwoI startle awake, stifling a cry. This is the real world, I tell myself. This is life now.That was then. Chest heaving, I raise my hand to my forehead and find it beaded with sweat. Hair clings to my face, matted and stringy. The bedding around me lies damp, the white sheet ensnaring my leg.With an exasperated groan, I rip myself free.Cute, I think, these night terrors. So very mature. So very adult. Always, it feels like my fault. As if this could have been prevented. I have told myself and told myself not to think of it—never, if possible, but especially not at night. This always happens. Sure, sometimes it happens even when I’m good: when I choose to meditate—or medicate. When I don’t let my mind return. When I don’t look back and remember—a face, lifeless, eyes bulging. When I don’t reach out to touch it. When I don’t remember how cold the skin, how empty the eyes, how very dead.Even now, my body tenses. Go back further, I tell myself. Go back to before. I both love and hate the past. It holds what I Chapter ThreeIf you’re expecting a love story, this sure as hell isn’t it.Not that I know the ending. But I sure know the beginning and the middle, and it’s pretty dark. You’re not in for much of that bubbly, butterflies-in-your-stomach shit. I’m not exactly a heroine. I’m not exactly—how should I put it?—happy, hopeful. Don’t expect something redemptive in my story.It’s a story. It’s mine. That’s about it. The potential significance, even the novelty of it, wears thin year after year. I don’t profess to be interesting. I didn’t have the worst go of it. There’s no major life lesson, no philosophical breakthrough. Perhaps it’s wise to find something better to do. To avoid the mess that is me. To look for someone and something constructive. Fuck, at least find someone who’s funny. I will never be funny. But what am I then, if not interesting? Nor humorous? Apart from pathetic, I am unusual, for starters. After that, complicated. Perhaps a bit morose. Sullen, almost every Tuesday.God, Tuesdays are the worst. But that’s not my constructed self. Who I am for all the world to see is far shinier,