I was sitting in the living room when She visited again. The old sofa I sat in creaked with my weight, the room dark as grungy blinds protected the room from light. Some minor streamlets gazed in knowingly, giving the outside world an angelic appearance. Dust appeared to float on the light, soaking it in, blissfully relaxing as I watched through tired eyes.

The apple I was eating was the only sound in the unfortunately quiet room. Ironic, as I could easily turn on the TV or the radio, flood the room with meaningless noise until I was drowned in a sea of sound, yet somehow I couldn’t bring myself to. I took another bite of the apple, grateful for the relief it brought to my ears and thoughts. But somehow, that didn’t stop Her from coming.

    This time She sat in the once pink recliner that was now turned grey with a tint of pink. The skin of it hung off loosely, as if its bones were too tired to hold the weight of springs and metal, of fabric and once happy children. It was the only piece of furniture in the house that I kept immaculate, kept in a state of distorted perfection that teased the dusty house relentlessly.

She sat as She always had: hands on the arms of the chair, leaning back but not quite touching. It was as if She was always in a state of constant tension, ready to spring at any moment. Her gray hair hung loosely around Her shoulders, glistening silver in the minisculely lit room, while Her face was completely blank, a slight twinkle in Her deep blue eyes. Our gazes locked, and I looked at my legs while scowling, as if I were trying to make Her disappear forever. I could hear soft steps padding towards me, but I buried my head deeper into my hands, hoping She wouldn’t come closer, but I knew She would. She sat beside me, and placed a hand on my back, which I shrugged off.                        “Go away,” I hissed quietly. The hand returned, and I couldn’t shrug it off this time. I could feel great tides of crashing, breaking glass tugging at my shores, pulling me in deeper.

“Stop it!” I screamed, feeling my nails dig harshly into the skin of my head, leaving deep crescents and shaking hands in their wake.

The hand only pressed harder, and I could feel the tides finally dragging me under, drowning me in shards of broken glass.

Cut. Her making Thanksgiving dinner, humming a tune I couldn’t quite place even then. Grandchildren running and screaming happily around the house, giggling with joy, blissfully innocent. The smell of turkey wafting into the hallway as I watched from the doorway, smiling, eyes crinkling.

Cut. Her, sitting in a fluffed recliner, grandchildren gathered on and around Her lap, eagerly listening to a story. Newly opened presents were easily forgotten in exchange for Her graceful words that flowed easily from Her tongue.

Cut. Her, crying on the recliner, legs pulled tightly to her chest as if to hide from the world. Her, shaking, once strong but now fragile like a piece of glass, one touch away from breaking.

Cut. Her, talking happily on the patio with friends, drinking in the conversation in the setting sun’s orange light. Eyes twinkling,snared by the stories that were being exchanged by clever mouths.

Cut. Her, screaming, throwing an empty glass across the room, shattering into a thousand pieces. Armies of words assaulting the conversation, bruises on Her skin now obvious, ranging from a pale yellow to a sickening purple.

End.

“Why!” I wailed, pulling my legs to my chest, letting the tides that flooded my mind leak out of my eyes and run down my cheeks onto the floor. The hand was gone, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Her sitting back on the chair. When I looked up again, She was gone, leaving only shards of broken glass behind.