An Unquiet Mind

I’m laying on the couch reading a novel when one of the photographs of my dead brother falls to the ground with a mighty CRASH! I put my book down to investigate. There is glass ranging in size from shards to chunks, scattered far from the site of impact with my floor. I go fetch my broom and dustpan. I unsafely pick up the bigger pieces and chuck them in the trash unceremoniously, then I sweep up the rest. As I do, I’m made painfully aware of the glass so small it slips under the rubber lip of the dustpan when I sweep the broom up to meet it. I immediately think of my unsuspecting cat walking through her domain on a literal bed of glass, small enough to wedge themselves into her tiny paws. 

Hours later I walk into the bathroom and step on a glass chunk of the miniature variety. I watch the bottom of my foot begin to bleed, feeling it quickly drying and leaving behind a sticky residue and sound when it slaps against the wood floor as I explore my apartment trying to remember where I stashed the bandaids. My knees crack as I squat down to pick up the glass now covered in my reddish brown dried blood and throw it in the small bathroom trashcan. I clean up the tacky red smear on the bathroom floor. I check around the area for any other hiding daggers, more for my cat’s sake than mine, before I go back to the couch only to realize I’ve completely lost my spot in the novel.