“No,” he stated. “Weird.”
“Ethereal.”
“Weird, Beth.”
“Unique.”
7
BETH
Callan. His name is Callan.
Mornings in this house had always been slightly off. Some days, it felt like the world woke up without me. Other days, it woke me instead, pressed trauma into my hands, or shoved it down my throat, and warned me not to choke.
This morning was a perfect example of the latter. My poetry award that had been hanging on the wall right in front of my study desk for the past 6 years had broken.
I crouched on the floor next to the table, shards of glass surrounding me, glinting like scattered stars near my knees.
Over the longest line on my right palm, red bloomed from the piece of glass that sliced the skin. I didn’t even realise I had been cut until I saw the red. The sting hadn’t settled in yet, not whenthe one in my heart felt like a dagger wedged and twisted inside me.
The frame that just broke laid face down. A few minutes ago, it was still hanging on this very wall, holding a piece of me that was once untouched by the chaos, that once reminded me that in another world, I could be someone special.
Awarded by The Raskov Charity Foundation—the silver plate at the bottom read. I wondered how that particular part still managed to be whole despite all the cracks in the glass.
It was really strange indeed, how the smallest part of the frame was the one that survived the fall.
I threw my head back, blinking to stop the tears burning behind my eyes. Then I grabbed the sleeve of my blazer, pressing it into my palm, watching as the scarlet drop threaded into the fabric.
I should tuck the homework I did late last night which still sat on my study desk into my rucksack. I should’ve put on my shoes and worn my tie. I should be heading out now. Because Kenzo’s car engine hummed out on the lawn, right next to my window, steady, patient, the type that belonged to a better morning.
But I knelt there like a nun in prayer. And all I could think about was that day again. Me sitting at the reception of Lumina Dome, the largest convention hall in Braemont, my poems scrawled in uneven lines across a page torn out of the old diary that I wrote my little thoughts. The little thoughts Kenzo loved to callpoetry.
I had been nervous, my fingers trembling, heart racing. And he held my hand–Kenzo, told me I would win because I was a brilliant girl who‘felt too much’. I smiled and nodded even though I didn’t understand what he meant. I looked deep into his bright eyes as if those little golden rings around his irises were the magic I needed.
I wanted to win the poetry award, because I wanted to follow him everywhere. I wanted to leave my old school and follow him to his expensive one for rich kids only. I wanted to follow Kenzo Takahashi to his laughter, to his smile…to his light. He didn’t know it yet then, but several pages of my diary held my heart for him.
And now years later, the thing I won for loving him too deeply laid in pieces on the floor.
I picked up the frame. My reflection fractured in the glass. How ironic that even my victory ended up bleeding too.
A loud, frustrated horn jolted me back. Kenzo never honked twice. He knew how much I hated the sound. Sniffling, I hurried to gather the broken pieces, pressing them carefully into the trash.
Dusting my hands on my plaid skirt, I rushed over to where my polished doc martens sat beside the bed and slipped them on. I threw my notebooks haphazardly into my bag and slung it over my shoulder.
Before I headed out, my gaze rested briefly on the wall that once held the frame. It looked naked now, like a wound without a scab.
The slam of my wooden door resonated down the quiet hall when I left my room, the sound louder than I would have wanted it to.
“What broke?” Mother’s voice came from the kitchen, cold and surgical as ever. “It sounded expensive.”
My hand was already on the doorknob, ready to exit.
“It’s nothing,” I whispered, keeping my eyes down. I didn’t want to look at her. I knew that expression by heart. The tight curl of her mouth, the revulsion she tried and failed to pass off as concern. She always looked at me the way you looked at something ruined, something dangerous, something better kept at a distance.
“Better,” she added, which would have been mild if her tone wasn’t cynical. “Because you really don’t have anything to keep losing.”
The word struck me like a cold whip.
