The Glass Charmer

A glass elephant, formed from a Turkish sand-spinner, tries to confront its current master about her emotional and drug-addiction catastrophes.

I keep breaking. I broke my toe last night. She picked me up, she threw me. They were arguing.  Bright sound-waves churned emotional flesh; pitched notes, forte fortissimo, scarring each other with weary wounds. I could almost see their brains dripping with the effort. I hit the wall, feet-first. Missed Paul. Her words didn’t. My home is the bedroom, on the cabinet. Usually. Until two hours ago I inhabited the floor, clinking intangible glasses with the dust mites on the floor. They never say anything back. Makes for a boring party. I’m currently missing a toe, my left arm and my bottom. She managed to glue back on a couple of pieces, but I’m not sure why she bothers. I’m a broken wreck with a smile like Pierrot the Clown. Half my trunk is missing. I know where it is: cuckolding me with the sweet wrappers and pipe cleaners down the dark city in the small gap between wallpaper and wardrobe.  She doesn’t care. I understand that she has a rough life; Paul suffers from a certain disease, one that seems to eat away at his neurons; she suffers from this, and he inadvertently eats away hers too. She complements that with drink and Special K. I don’t mean the cereal, either. Her mother gave me away when I was seventy. I am a family heirloom, traceable back to my origins as a spin of glass, beautiful potential, at the hands of a talented glass weaver. I remember my formation; my monist soul woven by the fabric of a man who knew the secrets to atomic reality. He’s dead, now. I felt him die.  I was a lucky charm. Lucy doesn’t believe in such things, but her mother did. That’s why she found an Irish preacher with a kind heart and a true sense of faith.  Lucy believes God is real, and that He hates her. He despises her and wishes her every punishment and vice in the world. Lucy thinks her drug addictions are merely an offset of her lowly life. She grew up with good parents. Muffled, ignorant, but good; better than most get. No alcoholism, no anger, no homophobia, no racism or sexism.  So I’m no longer a lucky charm. I’m a pointless heirloom, shattered and glued - bespoke spectacles with lenses now useless. From this, I do hope Lucy never gives me back to her mother. I would hate to let her see me in such a pitiful state.  Still, I am stoic. I won’t give up just yet.  Lucy licks the keyhole with a silver key and clatters through the battered door downstairs. I can see it well in my glass head. She puts down her bag in the hall, as she usually does. Her next move will be to check her hair in the mirror and grimace at the faint line of grey hairs appearing prematurely, a Todd-like streak running from temple to atmosphere. She is twenty-seven. It’s due to the intensity of stress. She is about to dye her hair. She’ll enjoy the process; she likes the feeling of conditioner on her hair – it’s the only thing she enjoys. The hair dye is the same.  She takes off her socks and places them on the ironing board and drinks milk out of the carton. For once, she isn’t thinking about K. She’s thinking about that glorious feeling of vitality, of change, however momentary. She will love her new hairstyle; the chosen colour suits her striking green eyes. Paul will not notice. She runs up the stairs, two at a time. She trips on one, laughs and swears lightly. I was never one for cursing, but it’s good to see her in a good mood.  She opens the bedroom door. She glances at me, grimaces slightly. I take offence, breath in deep and open my refractive mouth.  “Lucy,” I say to the cold room, unfinished, unpainted, ill-loved and ill-decorated.  “I’m alive. Give me back my trunk. Stop taking drugs. Stop drinking alcohol. Forget the weed and the ketamine; I love you, I love your mother, I love your family – why don’t you fix me and keep me? Paul can’t live here anymore. He’s broken, just like you. “But I can see that you can be fixed – easily. All you need to do is fix me, Lucy. I’m your lucky charm. I unconsciously weave the quarks and electrons of the universe until they point in your favour; I am the physical apparition of metaphysical luck. Every sky is a dark blue, my dear; but not for me and you. We can have a sunset. “Just believe in Lady Luck; have some faith, whether religious or not. Have it in science, have it in dignity, in patriotism – anything to give you hope. “Hope is the only thing we can pass on to the next generation. That’s what I’m supposed to do; that’s what I was built for. Believe in me. You’re not here, and yet I know you can hear me.” Two hours later, Lucy is awake, the hair dye forgotten. She glues on my trunk, and for the first time in her life, cries tears. Tears of faith.