Warning: This work has been rated 18+ for language and violence.
My home is filled with broken fucking glass and I just jumped into it with bare feet, voluntarily. I knew what was coming and yet I still put my feet down. Blood trickles from my wounds and I limp to a conclusion; I am an animal. Not any kind of animal, but one that doesn’t mind broken fucking glass and pulls out the shards like nothing. A predatory beast who blends right in with the scenery, not noticed by the prey right up until the moment of attack. I just haven’t attacked yet.
The glass shards scatter the floor of the bunker and I hit out, slamming my fist into the concrete walls with a cry, the newspaper article at my feet. The concrete is hard, no shit, and my knuckles are bleeding. The real injury distracts me from the glass that I’m pulling out with my shaking fingers as I slide down the wall onto the floor. A gust of wind blows through the makeshift chimney and the newspaper flies upwards. It’s grabbed by a hand, presumably my own, and pulled towards a still beating heart.
I know what it says. I know who it’s about. I know why my mum didn’t want me to see it.
Next to me is the past. In front of me is the looming future, towering over me with an uncertainty tainting the possibilities. Would I end up as the headline, or would I become the editor, on a shattered computer, waiting to be the writer?
The ink from the article seeps through my cold skin and into my lungs, each breath reminding me of my heritage, the weight of what I could become pushing down on my ribs as the words really began to circulate within my system.
There are still shards of glass in my feet, buried deep under fast healing skin. Pulling them out would result in open wounds I don't want to infect.
“I was only 17,” the wind whispered to me from outside, forcing it's way in “17 years of innocence doesn't equate to two hours of torture,”
The dirt crawled through the cracks in the bricks and suffocated my throat “This is what happened to me, buried underneath the worms and the filth, choking and spluttering, spluttering and choking and dead dead dead,”
My lungs expand with the weight of the dirt as I choke and splutter like she did. Cold hands touch the hard, stone floor and my knees scrape over the stray rocks. My throat contracts, forcing up the dirt and the realisations. The newspaper flutters in a sudden gust of wind, drifting just out of my reach, towards the door and the steps and the outside and the rest of the victims of my paternal side.
A single, selfish warm tear rolls down my frozen face. I'm scared for myself, for what I am capable of. The glass shards on the ground pierce my hands and knees as I crawl towards the door, leaving a trail of blood and anger behind me. I'm not crying for them, I'm crying for me. They're already dead and I'm still breathing, every second is torture, not knowing if I will smash the mirror into shards of glass myself, or let someone else.