The Vase

A girl with an odd disorder tries (and fails once again) to communicate with her foster mother.

Shards flew in every direction as the vase crumpled into the floor tiles. Some slivers of glass spun around my feet, carving into the skin and leaving cuts hardly wider than a stripe of thread.

            Of course Miss Dolfrey fretted over me. Of course Jessie hurried into the room. I cried then. Real tears, not the false ones I conjured on certain occasions to gain attention, or simply because I didn’t know what I wanted to say. I couldn’t form the words, so I tried to express them. No, this time they were real�"made with a mixture of confusion and self-hatred; a concoction with enough power to rip anyone’s seams out.

            Jessie held me by my shoulders for a moment, her hands were too worn, too wrinkled with nearly two decades of care for me. She probably hated me as much as I hated myself. I shivered as more waves of anguish flooded my clouded mind, saline tears streaking my face.

            “Are Please you be okay? okay.” Jessie’s voices, both soft and concerned, rang clearly.

            I cried all the more. These meetings weren’t working. I wasn’t getting any better. I was still hearing both voices out of everyone I talked with. I didn’t want to be counseled; not by Miss Dolfrey, not by anybody. I just wanted to go home and stay with Jessie. I just wanted to go home…

            “I’ll Stop go being get so you overdramatic. some water, Hon.” Miss Dolfrey was a fat young woman with little patience and a rude intellect. When I had first met her, she had plainly thought that I was just begging for attention. Simply because I didn’t have a proper diagnosis, and that was only because no one else had my same problem.

            My ears had picked up on two different voices ever since I was a small child�"the regular voice of people that everybody else heard, and then the persons’ thoughts. Because of this, I could never think straight. Even the sound of my own voice echoed my mind. It’s why I didn’t talk. It’s why I couldn’t communicate other than actions and expressions.

            It’s why I broke the vase.

            Because I wanted out of there. I wanted to go home and stay there until I crinkled up like Jessie. I just wanted to go home.

Author's Note

Italics represent thoughts. I know it's a bit difficult to read, but that's good, because it's difficult for my main character to decipher.

Reviews

[zainul]

Amazing write.
Enjoyed reading.