{"sf1_id":8263,"sf2_id":"rm8Kkle0","title":"Piece of Glass","author":"Squirrel","words":2424,"posted_at":"2005-12-07T02:43:00.000Z","tags":["Mouse","Psychological"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/8263-piece-of-glass","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/rm8Kkle0","image_url":"https://www.sofurryfiles.com/std/thumb?page=8263\u0026ext=.jpg","description":"","content":"\"Can't believe that I did it again ...  \nWake me up from this nightmare.  \nCause this monster's wasting me away and  \ntaking my days.\"  \n  \n  \nThe mouse was on his side. In bed. Groggy and cold (so cold) and not knowing the time. Not caring, really, what the time was, but ... at the same time ... caring. Pull and push ... tug of war. Between the vibrancy of life, his will ... to know. To be aware. And between the indifference and despair that was leaking through the pinholes in his heart. Flooding him. Slowly sinking him.  \n  \nWas it (already) time to wake?  \n  \nWas their time left (to dream)?  \n  \nOr was it time (at last) to ignore ... the encroachment of day? To fade away?  \n  \nThere was no way to say ...  \n  \nFor the clock was out of view. The clock, the alarm clock/radio, was out of view ... and on the floor. Unplugged. On its side. Surrounded by shards of a candy cane. The glinting, sharp white of the mint ... the bloody hues of the red stripes. Representing the blood of Christ. The white ... the purity. Those shards, that candy cane ... in pieces on the floor.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The mouse, there in the dark ... knowing that, remembering it ... could only pray that his faith did not go that way. Did not meet that same end. Did not end up in pieces on the floor. As the candy cane had the night before ...  \n  \n... when the mouse, pacing, pacing, had been sucking, sucking on the candy cane. Unable to keep himself from biting, biting.  \n  \nCrunch-crunch ...  \n  \nThe blast of mint. The sugar ... but not so sweet. A cold, wintery sort of sugar.  \n  \nA blood rush.  \n  \nTo the head.  \n  \nTo the heart.  \n  \nAnd he inhaled sharply. Feeling the cold that resulted ... feeling that chill.  \n  \nAnd he swallowed. Eyes closed. Swallowed and savored that. The first bit of ... food, of anything, of any sustenance ... he'd ingested all afternoon and night.  \n  \nHe crunched. Couldn't stop. Couldn't suck.  \n  \nChomped it up like a pretzel stick.  \n  \nAnd unwrapped another.  \n  \nAnd did the same.  \n  \nPacing all the while. This way, that way ... back and forth. To the wall, across the floor ... and to the other wall. An eye's-blink journey, thin, ropy tail trailing like a string ... and yet ... as he went, as he moved, he could only think of how long it had been ... since he'd had someone to be close to. Physically, emotionally, realistically close to ... to look them in the eyes. To be able to make eye contact with someone. When was the last time he'd made eye contact with someone? And to be made to laugh ... when was the last time he'd laughed?  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; The mouse kept no mirrors in his room.  \n  \nHe didn't wish to see his reflection. Didn't wish to ... see the blank eyes. The gauntness. Didn't wish to see how awkward he was. Didn't wish to acknowledge it.  \n  \nDidn't wish to think of all the loves gained and lost ... didn't wish to dwell on the fact that it was him. It was his fault. My fault.  \n  \nWhat did I do wrong?  \n  \nWhy don't they like me?  \n  \nWhy ... can't ... why can't I make it work? Why can't I reach anyone?  \n  \nWhat is wrong with me?  \n  \nLove ... intimacy ...  \n  \nIt was softer than a canon blast, but it's effects ... did much longer last. He needed it ... like a meal and bed. Wanted it like a hole in his head.  \n  \nLove had broken him down. Had reduced him to sobs.  \n  \nLove had given him hope. Brief fireworks of joy.  \n  \nLove had tied him in a knot.  \n  \nThe mouse still believed, somehow, that it would be love that pulled him out of this. Pulled him through this. Someone. Not just anyone. Someone. And it would ... that love ... it would be his medicine.  \n  \nIt would heal him.  \n  \n  \n\"Every day, I live a bit less.  \nOne night leads to another.  \nEven if I went back, would they  \nrecognize me?  \nOr criticize me?\"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \nOr would it?  \n  \nIt hadn't before. He'd felt it before, and it hadn't ... and ... so, there was his faith ... he clung to his faith. Always would. His hope ...  \n  \nIf there ... if it wasn't there, that hope of eternal life, rest, joy. Salvation. Of being redeemed. Of being able to live beyond all the small disgraces of all the times and places that he never really left. If that promise of rest, of divine purpose ... wasn't infused into his life, the mouse ... without that, the mouse didn't believe he could have any hope.  \n  \nThe hope of Heaven, of rest, of joy ...  \n  \nIt kept him ... barely alive. Barely.  \n  \nAlive.  \n  \nAnd maybe that would pull him through. If not love, faith. But if not faith, what ... was there left?  \n  \nWill? Resolve? Self?  \n  \nHe was far beyond the ropes of those flimsy anchors ... that had long since washed to sea.  \n  \nAnd as he paced in this room (his room) chomping on candy canes like they were a drug ... as he manically walked back and forth in an unwavering line ... the mouse thought of the morning. How, after his shower, he'd caught his eyes in the mirror. The blue-grey of his eyes. How he'd caught them for a second. A split second. How he'd thought ...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \n\"Who are you that lies when you  \nstare at my face?  \nTelling me that  \nI'm just a trace  \nof the fur I once was?  \nCause I just can't tell if you're telling the truth  \nor a lie.  \nOn you, I just can't rely.  \nAfter all, you're just a piece of glass.\"  \n  \n  \nThe mouse had thought those things. In the morning. Had hated his reflection. And, in turn ... he realized ... hated himself.  \n  \nDon't think, don't think, don't think ...  \n  \nThinking only makes it worse.  \n  \nDull yourself. Numb yourself. Wish yourself away.  \n  \nIn the afternoon, he'd thought very little. Had tried to ignore the dull aching coming from his body. Had tried to rationalize his loss of energy. Had tried to justify ... this. This. All of this. Had tried not to think, tried not to play and replay all the scenarios in his head. All the ways of ...  \n  \n\"Still, I control this nightmare.  \nWhen I call, it answers.  \nBut I can't tell it when to come or  \nwhen to stay.\"  \n  \nAnd all the freedom in the mouse's soul could not resist the dark temptation of those sweet, loosened lips ... the lips of pain. Of suffering. Of ... discord. All the freedom the mouse contained ... in all of it, there was no resisting that.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; And why?  \n  \nWhy did he do this to himself? Was it the simple depression? The sharp anxiety? The constant compulsions? His forbidden, confused sexuality? Was it all those things ... that had led to this? To this desperate act of self-destruction?  \n  \nWas he punishing himself?  \n  \nWhy did he nibble at the food ... and leave it on the plate?  \n  \nWhy did he run until he couldn't breathe? Losing weight he couldn't afford to lose?  \n  \nWhy did he go beneath the surface of his conscience ... his warmth ... go beyond it, to a deeper, darker part of himself, making deals with silky, slithering threads ... getting wrapped up in them. Caught in a web of something dark. Something down inside of him ... something dark.  \n  \nSomething.  \n  \nSomething he could not fully comprehend.  \n  \nMaybe he knew that the true him, the true mouse ... was too gentle, too queasy ... to realize that he, that Field ... was the problem. The mouse, himself, was the problem. And when there was a problem, it needed to be neutralized. But the shy and loving Field would never do that. Would never risk Hell ... or such pain. Afraid of pain. And who would want to neutralize such a shy, gentle mouse? Who would finish him off?  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; He would have to do it himself.  \n  \nSo, the darker parts of his mind ... had to burrow. Had to work behind his consciousness. To whisper things to his mind. To his ears.  \n  \nMaybe he could indirectly kill himself.  \n  \nMaybe he could do it in such a way that he could be in denial about it.  \n  \nMaybe it would get so bad ...  \n  \n... and be too late.  \n  \nAnd, when he was gone, maybe the pain would stop ...  \n  \nOr maybe not.  \n  \nMaybe this was the loophole to killing himself and ... avoiding Hell ... maybe ... it was a quick loophole into Heaven.  \n  \nOr maybe it was none of those things.  \n  \nMaybe it was simply ... sad.  \n  \nThe mouse was ... being controlled by too many forces. Too many versions of himself.  \n  \nHe could no longer be sure ... who he was.  \n  \nThe mirror lied.  \n  \nHe knew ... the mirror lied, and ... when he caught sight of it, of that reflection, he had to look away. The lie was too great. Too strong. Like looking into the sun. It burned.  \n  \n  \n\"Don't talk ... listen ...  \nHold me tighter ...  \nStay with me just for a while ...  \nUntil the sun shines, stay with me ... \"  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;  \nHe longed to be held.  \n  \n\"Hold me,\" he whispered to the dark. Breathing ... into the dark. \"Please ... dear God ... hold me tighter ... please ... \"  \n  \nAnd, in his room, on his fourth candy cane ... the mouse's mind was throbbing. Head was throbbing. Stomach wanting more. Body wanting more. Pleading, begging ... telling him he was smarter than this. Telling him he was worth more than this ...  \n  \nTelling him of his brightness ... of his spark ...  \n  \nBut, in his room, in such a dark, the mouse could barely believe it. Any of it. Could barely remember ... when it had been different. When he hadn't felt this pain.  \n  \nHad it been years?  \n  \nIt was consuming him.  \n  \nField had ceased to eat his meals ... and, in turn, became the meal of his own pain. It was eating him away. And saving the core of his heart for very last. For dessert.  \n  \nMaybe ... maybe ... maybe he had the gifts that everyone spoke so highly of ... funny, though, how nobody really wanted them ... not in any tangible, lasting way. Not in any ...  \n  \n... time ... eyes catching the time. The time on the clock as he paced.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; After midnight.  \n  \nAnd Field squeaked. He had to be up at seven.  \n  \nThat meant going to bed.  \n  \nTo a vacuum. A void. A dreamless dead.  \n  \nNo rest.  \n  \nWaking or otherwise. No rest. And the mouse could scurry to another corner of the globe, somehow ... could try and run away, but it would follow him.  \n  \nThis would follow him.  \n  \nWherever he went ... he was there. He couldn't get away from himself.  \n  \nAnd his words, daily, fell to the floor ... like tears. His words ... so fast, so furious, so full ... flew and ... fell. And dried away. His words, so eager and so ... many of them. He sent them out like messengers. Hoping someone, anyone would hear them and ... send their own words back.  \n  \nHow he longed for those words to float, to be buoyant ... as if on a crystal sea. To float and sail to someone. To be welcomed. His words, his mind, his soul, his heart, his body ... his own self ... to send out a message. To be welcomed. To float into someone's harbor.  \n  \nTo find an anchor ... with someone.  \n  \nTo be rescued from this sickness.  \n  \nAnd the clock ... right now, the clock read ... the time. The time. It read the time, and ...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Field was sick of time, and ...  \n  \nPacing, pacing, pacing ...  \n  \nCrunching on that candy cane. Ravenous.  \n  \nHe could feel the last of himself ... being slowly stolen to the night, and ... the candy cane half eaten, he exhaled. His breath was shaky. And he still felt empty. The candy cane wasn't enough. It was ... a blip. A five-second boost.  \n  \nAnd the time. The time was taunting him.  \n  \nTime ...  \n  \nYou're older. So old. 21 ... that's old. That's forever. You're not young anymore. You've failed ... at relationships. Failed with ... your family ... failed ... out of school.  \n  \nAll the failure.  \n  \nYour time is running out ...  \n  \nYour time ...  \n  \nTime was taunting him.  \n  \nHis body was taunting him, too. Hungry ... wanting him to finish that candy cane. Crying for him to finish it. Even when it knew that the candy cane wouldn't really help. Wouldn't really satiate this.  \n  \nField, in the middle of his room, knees shaking, covered his ears, feeling ... he was being taunted. Everything ... like the Devil was gunning for him ... and was succeeding.  \n  \nThe Devil, the ultimate predator ... was hunting this mouse.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Darkness was the predator of this prey.  \n  \nAnd Field, candy cane in paw, quietly shaking (and quietly crying), punched the clock ... the candy cane shattering upon impact, and his paw smashing the clock to the floor, where it sailed, clattered, and came unplugged from the wall. And the shards of the candy cane splintered ... and glinted as they became strewn across the floor.  \n  \nLike glass.  \n  \nThe mouse, heaving (for breath, for sustenance, for peace, for answers, for ... life) ... the mouse ... panted, feeling liable to pass out. Feeling a bit dizzy. He stumbled to his bed and flopped down on it, on his empty stomach ... sobbing quietly, clutching at the plush on his bed ... burrowing into the pillows. Shivering. Body unable to protect him from the chill in the air ... thinly shivering.  \n  \n\"Just give me one more day,\" was his whisper. His plea. His prayer. \"Dear God, please ... please,\" he sobbed. \"Just ... give me ... another day ... please,\" he went ... before losing his words. Losing them to a shaky quiet. Breathing, breathing ...  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp; Maybe tomorrow ... he would get better. Maybe he would ... a miracle would happen. And maybe he would heal.  \n  \nMaybe.  \n  \nOr maybe tomorrow would be another yesterday. Another today.  \n  \nMaybe tomorrow was another piece of glass.  \n  \nThe mouse, not knowing, at the mercy of his demons, fell into a semblance of sleep.  \n  \nPraying, \"Just one more day ... \"  \n  \n  \n\n"}