used a random sentence generator to come up with the sentence
‘don’t step on broken glass’
you wake up from a nightmare with fire in your veins, fear in your heart and the need to /run/. so you do, so you are. slipping and sliding out of bed, hand pushing your stumbling form away from the wall, towards a door.
you know it’s a bedroom door, but the nightmare is still high and fresh in your mind - consuming what senses you have alert right now. where it’s not a bedroom door, it’s a door that’s trapping you, holding you.
it’s a door that’s containing you, trapping you. the world does not make sense, not when you are in this in between space of haunting reality.
somewhere it registers that you’re in maggie’s living room. with the muffled sounds of a city alive through the open window. you feel a breeze shifting through the apartment and again,
part of your mind is registering the distinct lack of a clear and present danger.
there are alarm ins your head, there is the shattering of glass and there is the seizing of your body because you have done terrible, terrible things. things that haunt you, things that, upon nights like tonight,
there’s a hitching sound.
you spin wildly, trying to track the movement of a shadow. a shadow that is moving slowly, moving deliberately. a shadow that is talking with calm and steady words.
“alex,” the voice is saying “alex you’re okay. you’re safe. you’re home. you’re in my kitchen.”
there is no rushing in the voice - but it’s familiar,
it drags you away from the deeper darkness, away from the echoing cries of the people you’ve hurt.
you swallow hard.
your head is fuzzy, and again, this voice saying
“can you open your hand for me alex? can you do that?”
so you do,
and you are, because apparently your body trusts the voice even when your head is still playing catch up.
the cold bites you. and your hand clenches tighter because the memories can not compare to the stinging cold of ice in your hand. ice given to you by maggie.
maggie who is stepping closer, slowly, asking
“can i hold your hand?”
yes she can.
you’re reaching and maggie is giving and you’ve got her warmth in one hand, ice melting in the other and you’re breathing, ragged. it echoes in the kitchen space, where there is glitter on the floor, where maggie is saying gently
“don’t step on the broken glass babe.”
because you knocked, threw, or otherwise destroyed a glass in the throws of your panic.
but maggie isn’t mad. she is leading you to the couch, she’s turning on the tv - muted at first until she can set up a soft, easy movie. and even after, the volume on low,
the ice in your hand gone and you, drawn to her warmth. mumbling an apology against her chest, and maggie replying, with steadfast sureness,
“it’s just a glass, there are more glasses. there’s only one you.”