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She hated glass.
She hated its seemingly smooth surface and rough cutting edges. She hated the see-through quality of glass. Because no matter what she did, she wouldn't be able to hide behind it. Glass would always give her away, she would always be noticed.
She hated the inner coldness of glass. It would never hold a warm temperature for long and cool quickly. She hated the lifelessness of the prettiest glass figures.
She hated the fragility of glass, the way it would shatter into the dozens of small pieces. The pieces would be lying on the floor, glittering in the light, so pretty, but yet so deadly. The beauty of the glass always held a deathly quality for her.
She was afraid of glass as much as she hated it.
Every time she took a cup in her unsteady hands, she expected it to burst into the bits and cut her. She was clutching it in her hands at the same time, afraid that it would slip out of her grasp and fall down. And shatter. And she hated the sound of the glass breaking.
She hated the way it was unrestorable when broken. She once tired gluing a broken plate, but only cut her hands in shreds. She hated it and felt fear rising and her chest tightening and the tears forming in the eyes when something glass was broken. And broken meant the unmendable disappearance from the existence. It meant vanishing and leaving no traces. In other words, being swept up and thrown into a dustbin.
Glass wasn't permanent. And she hated the temporary things in her life. She hated to think that her life could be as fragile as glass and once she would find it broken and in a dustbin among the garbage.
Her fear of the glass things reached the point when she couldn't take a plate or a cup. Her hands would tremble and she would eventually lose the grip and the glass would fall and she would scream.
She loathed everything resembling glass. She hated plates and cups, porcelain and china, electric bulbs and tubs, and mirrors. Oh yes, mirrors, she hated them above all.
Mirrors weren't transparent, no, they were worse, much worse. They were reflecting. Even though she could sometimes see her image in the various glass objects, but usually it was blurry and distorting. In the mirrors she could see her true self, the one with tousled hair and dark purple circles under the eyes, the one with the hunted look and paranoia shinning eyes.
Mirrors never lied. They told her what she was trying to forget - she was getting old.
That is why she hated them as well. That is why she shattered them without any remorse.
She hated glass.
That is why she was unbelievably happy that in her new room there was nothing made of it. Everything around her was made of plastic and sterile: trays, plates, cutlery, a table, chair, even a sink. She hated glass, that is why in her new home there were no windows and the walls were cushioned.
She hated glass. She was happy.
December 13, 2004