Photo: J. Curtis

Glass Houses

You’re not really there.

The way your body is contorted doesn’t leave me with an easy feeling. Never has. That slumped-shoulder-mouth-agape-fear-eyed look.

Every day for two years.

You make your way into the front and every day I leave the drapes open hoping something triggers. Just a spark. So far nothing. Those eyes locked in the distance taking everything and nothing in.

Where are you?

I’ve taken you off the medication against the wishes of your doctor. His warning was pleading but, now, I’m not so sure he wasn’t right.

Please talk to me.

Your voice came back about two weeks later but only as a hiss, the top end of a moan that can’t crest the edge of your voice box. More like an air leak that changes pitch with the rise and fall of your too thin chest.

I see you trying.

Your knuckles are warped into a crush of shapes. One hand at your side, the other buried deep in your gut, wrist turned inward. They flick as if unconnected from the rest of you.

You’re on display.

It’s the only way I can keep you close. The law men say you have to be under observation twenty-four-seven. People drive from all over to see you, mock you. But I make them pay for the privilege.

Come back.


Week 2.5 of 52 Week Writing Challenge — trying to catch up on a lost week.