Fragments, Shards, and Other Things

I looked at the bandage around my arm. I couldn't remember exactly why it was there. It was dark reddish-brown; dried blood, I presumed. Though that didn't explain why it was on my left arm, which was what I wanted to know.

I was standing behind the sink in my bathroom. I looked in the mirror, and a dirt-stained reflection looked back at me. It had nothing to do with my appearance; I hadn't cleaned the mirror in months. I turned on the faucet and let water pour onto my hand. I carelessly wiped the grime off of the mirror, leaving dripping water in its place. Now it was clean, and my reflection dulled. I didn't bother to dry my hand; a little dirty water wouldn't kill me.

Without any real semblance of thought, I left the bathroom and went into my mother's bedroom. I couldn't remember where she was, but I knew she wasn't around. I sifted through one of the drawers in her room, not quite sure what it was I was looking for.

My fingers brushed against cold plastic, and I picked out the white bottle. Seeing it made me feel sick; it reminded me of a hospital room. The pills inside rolled, clattered, back and forth in their container. I didn't like their sound.

I held them in my hand and walked back into the bathroom. I opened up the bottle and looked inside. Ugly, pale-green pills. I put one in my mouth, swallowed it. I didn't like it. I took the bottle over to my bathtub and dumped them down the large drain. I heard them fall, making the pipes echo. And the bottle was tossed into the trash bin.

Another glance in the mirror; my reflection was still dull. I stared into my own eyes, noticing their lack of sparkle. My eyes wandered, and I realized the entire bathroom was void of luster. It was an ugly white place, filled with unknown stains. I looked back at the mirror, and I saw a crack at the bottom. Watching, the crack grew and spread, engulfing the entire mirror. It shattered, spraying forth at me. Broken fragments rained into the sink, taking some of my blood with them. Red trickled over the shards, framing the edges and dripping onto the white porcelain sink. My face stung, and I was rather glad the pieces could no longer reflect what I looked like.

I glanced at the bandages on my arm, glanced at the sink. Dull reflections, sharp razor mirrors. My fingers brushed against my face, and I remember the stinging.

A drop of blood slid down my leg. I wondered where it came from, and then noticed the small slash across my skin. Damn. I needed a better way to shave than holding a razor blade between my fingers.

I glanced at the stained piece of metal, looking at my faint reflection. Somewhere in the abyss of steel, I saw sharp fragments raining down. I slung the razor away from me, into the bathtub. I wiped the trickle of blood off my leg, staining my palm a faint slash of red. Standing up, I looked into the bathtub; it was a bad place to leave something sharp. I bent down to pick up the razor blade, when a sound startled me. I jerked back, staring at the large drain in the tub. A loud gurgling sound echoed through the pipes. An unexpected puddle of tar bubbled out of the drain and into the bathtub. Still the gurgling, and it continued to force itself out of the pipes and into my bathroom. Gooey black tar, sticking to the porcelain and bubbling from the depths of plumbing. I stepped back from the bathtub, not wanting to see anymore. The gurgling continued, and my hands pressed against my ears, trying to block the horrible sound. After what seemed like hours, the noise stopped. My hands came away from my ears, and I remembered the razor. I decided to leave it in the tub; I wouldn't be using it for a bath for anytime soon, now.

I glanced at the mirror to see a dirt-stained reflection. I used my finger to draw a heart in the grime covering the glass surface, smiling at my artwork. Then, looking around, I grabbed the towels from the racks. They weren't too pretty looking, and I had decided it was time to wash them. Laundry was something useful to do.

I got to the stairs and stopped. They were wooden and cracked, looking like rust. The banister was falling from the wall, pulling plaster out with it. Looking down the stairs, my head spun and got dizzy. There didn't appear to be any bottom floor: only a black, foreboding space. I dropped the towels onto the floor by my feet. I really didn't want to go down there.

The palm of my right hand felt plastic, and I looked down to discover I was holding a white medicine bottle. I shook it, only to find it was empty. I couldn't remember where it had come from, but something inside me felt nauseous looking at it. I pulled my arm back and flung the bottle away from me. It flew over the stairs and fell into the black abyss below. I never heard it hit ground.

I left the towels there and walked back into the bathroom. I remembered the razor and bent over into the tub to pick it up. There was a horrible ring in the bathtub; looked to be a stain of ashes. Black gooey tar clung around the drain, pulsing and puddling. I backed away from the tub, the razor blade gripped between my fingers. I then tossed it into the trash bin. It was safer there.

I glanced at the mirror, and it was still dirty as ever. I had wished it would just clean itself. There was something in me that didn't want to touch it, for some reason. I walked out of the bathroom and into the hallway. I looked around, the barren spaces looking back at me with their emptiness. With quick decision, I turned and went into my mother's room. Immediately I realized I should've stayed in the bathroom. The room smelled of stale cleansers; it smelled like a hospital. And something in the air reminded me of a morgue. I slowly made my way to her bed, looking about aimlessly. Her bed was made, quilts and sheets folded perfectly, her pillows plump. It looked like it hadn't been slept in for decades. Dust had collected in places atop the fabric. My hand wandered to the corner of the quilt, and something in me told me not to go any farther. I never listen to anyone, though. Especially not myself. Without giving it another thought, I pulled the covers back from the bed. Ashes were resting underneath, and immediately flew up into the air at the disturbance. Piles of ashes atop the mattress, taking flight and fluttering into my face. Blurring my vision.

Something shattered, and I remember the stinging.

I awoke in the bathtub, naked and drowsy. I pushed my hair out of my face with my left hand, immediately realizing there was some kind of warm, sticky goo on my right. I picked it up and looked at my hand, black tar sticking to streaks of my skin. It dripped like molasses, creating dark circles on the dirty white porcelain. I stood up, wanting to rid my hand of the thick tar. I stumbled somewhat, my head still tired. I gripped the sink for support, and there was a sharp stinging sensation through my left hand. Something warm and wet seemed to be spreading across it. I looked into the sink, seeing mirror shards filling it. And my left hand, sliced open all over and dripping red. I felt dizziness in my head at the site, and something in me felt sick. My right hand went to my face, and in the mirror fragments I saw a dark hand-print left smeared across my cheek. I looked around me and the bathroom was white... stained... white... It seemed to smear together and everything kept blinking away. And my right hand, searching my face for the source.

I still remember the stinging.