So focused on creeping closer, she doesn't see the glass until it breaks under her foot. A wine glass with a long stem. So sturdy when upright, even when pregnant with thick liquid bliss.
Now on its side, its neck snaps so easily against her bare sole. She feels the crack through her skin more than she hears it. The glass shatters into a dozen shards. Irreparable. But disposable.
The glass means nothing to her anyway. She shuffles onward, no time to stop, straining her focus away from the searing splinters embedding with each step.
How strange a sensation. She can't stop thinking about the wine stem. How it became so weak at that angle. Strength and beauty so easily overcome. Created for elegance not stability.
So effortlessly broken. So immediately hazardous.
She makes it to the other side of the room. Unable to process the red streaks on the linoleum or the person she's limping after.
But that throbbing, a reminder and a gift. Maybe pain was better than nothing at all.
Broken or not, she was alive.
Wasn't she?