Airel - Aaron Patterson [32]
Stuck in the back of my mind was my new friend, whispering why did the glass break? It was a good question. It wasn't one of those thin cheapie glasses. It was heavy, thick. I could have tossed it across the living room and it wouldn't have broken. It would have left a dent in the wall. So that’s how I spent my night: horror show, sweat shower, headache, my own real-life episode of CSI, and back to bed.
In the morning, I stood in front of the mirror in the first rays of sunshine more beautiful than I dared to be, especially after a night like that, hearing those words in my head: why did the glass break?
I unwound the tape and bandages, wanting to assess the damage before showing Mom my handiwork. That’s when I knew there was going to be big trouble. There was more to my little mysteries than vomit and perfect skin, anyway. I stared at my hand. Impossible! Then I stared at it in the mirror, thinking that in there maybe things would look normal. I’m going crazy and that’s that! My hand was not cut, bleeding, bruised or even starting to heal.
It was completely healed.
The alternative version of reality was that I was never cut, the glass never broke, and it was all just a bad dream. But there were bloody bandages and fragments of broken glass in the trash can that sat next to my dresser. I turned my hand palm up to inspect it again. Nothing. It was fine. But there was something gritty and shiny on my palm. After a closer look, I realized that somehow my body had rejected the tiniest shards of glass that had been embedded in it... the ones that I could not get out the night before.
I reached down and pulled the bandages out of the trash can. They too had little shards of glass. I looked again at my palm and realized that there weren’t even scars. I looked up into the mirror again, looking myself in the eyes, blinking as if meeting myself for the very first time.
Then I did something I still don't believe I had the guts to try. I reached back into the trash can, took a knife-like chunk of the remains of the glass, and held it up in front of my face. There, between the mirror and me, was a moment like ripples in a pond.
The girl in the mirror looked defiant and brave all at once. The real girl, if I could call myself that, felt scared but impulsive. The shard of glass looked wicked, dangerous. Now, I felt it down to my very bones, I knew what it felt like to be completely crazy.
I laid my hand palm up on the top of my dresser. I grabbed an old t-shirt from the drawer and bit down hard on it. I raised my right hand and stabbed the glass knife into my left I screamed through the t-shirt with clenched teeth. If Mom heard, she would probably just think I stubbed my toe or just remembered some unfinished homework.
Blood. Both hands were now badly cut. My right palm was sliced to ribbons where I had grasped the weapon and my left was absolutely pierced. The glass was stuck through it into the top of my dresser like a dagger.
I pulled, and with some effort, dislodged the glass shard from the dresser top, dropping it back into the trashcan. It chimed abruptly as it hit the other pieces of glass. I looked down at my hands with a look of horror on my face. What have I done?
Chapter XVIII
1250 B.C. Arabia
Kreios slept by the warm fire that had died down to coals, casting an amber glow on the hard-packed walls. Just before he had fallen asleep, he let his mind come to rest on part of his talk with Zedkiel.
His brother had mentioned a large city, two weeks’ journey to the west, where they were building structures out of stone and granite. He remembered living in a city much like the one his brother described, but a long time ago. That was another time, another life; but he allowed his mind to dwell in those memories as he drifted off to sleep.
It was now very late. Nothing moved.
A dark shadow crossed the room without a sound. Kreios awoke, becoming alert without opening his eyes. He had been trained for combat, and his