a home for homeless literature
5.
It is two a.m. and Brooklyn’s hand is bleeding. The splintered glass is in the sink except for a small piece that is lodged in her palm. How easily the glass slipped from her hand beneath the sudden flow of water. The jagged edge peaking from the slit looks as though it has been tinted red on purpose; a piece of jewelry shining in the dim light. Brooklyn is shaking but she doesn’t make any noise. The shattering should have waked Roland or the kids. She strains to hear a footstep or a door creak. She hears only the leaves’ constant flapping.
Brooklyn sits down at the table with a tea cloth on her lap. If she had tweezers this would be easy. There is not enough glass protruding from the wound for her to pull it out with just her fingers. Still shaking she walks to the nearest drawer, takes out a rounded butter knife and sits back at the table.
With her palm flattened out, a fresh stream of blood slips over the edge of her hand onto the towel. She holds the thickest part of the knife between her thumb and fist. Slowly. The silver tip against one side of the cut. A light push. Then she dips the knife down until she feels the click as it slides under the glass. Her hand is searing with heat and a high-pitched sting. She reminds herself, this doesn’t make a sound. Her ears feel packed and hot. One breath in, then she flicks her wrist and the glass slides upward and out. It drops lightly on the towel.
She can see the blood as it rushes to fill in the space left behind by the glass. It is black at the center when finally it spills over. Brooklyn puts the shard on the table then wraps her wounded hand tightly in the cloth. The shard, she notices, is very small. Much smaller than she thought when it was in her hand. The wound still feels occupied.
She relaxes into the chair and looks around. Death is cluttered, she thinks. Mugs surround her. There is one on each side of her like points on a compass. The closest mug is brown; it blends into the table. The tea has gotten weaker, she thinks, or perhaps she is losing her taste for it.
She has forgotten what it’s like to sleep through the night. At two a.m. Brooklyn is always here in the kitchen, surrounded by last swallows of tea and her reflection in the blackened window. Roland is asleep upstairs. Time rolls over itself and fills the crevices of the morning until she no longer remembers single nights, single reflections. She looks down at the blood soaked cloth and then at the speckled shard. This picture of blood seems to soak away the static memory of a hundred teacups under dim light. She shifts the cloth and it sticks to the wound then tears away and she feels new blood.
Brooklyn wonders if it will scar. She has so many now that age along her skin, shrinking, shifting, fading until they no longer resemble the once torn, the once sliced.
It is two a.m. and Brooklyn’s hand is bleeding. The splintered glass is in the sink except for a small piece that is lodged in her palm. How easily the glass slipped from her hand beneath the sudden flow of water. The jagged edge peaking from the slit looks as though it has been tinted red on purpose; a piece of jewelry shining in the dim light. Brooklyn is shaking but she doesn’t make any noise. The shattering should have waked Roland or the kids. She strains to hear a footstep or a door creak. She hears only the leaves’ constant flapping.
Brooklyn sits down at the table with a tea cloth on her lap. If she had tweezers this would be easy. There is not enough glass protruding from the wound for her to pull it out with just her fingers. Still shaking she walks to the nearest drawer, takes out a rounded butter knife and sits back at the table.
With her palm flattened out, a fresh stream of blood slips over the edge of her hand onto the towel. She holds the thickest part of the knife between her thumb and fist. Slowly. The silver tip against one side of the cut. A light push. Then she dips the knife down until she feels the click as it slides under the glass. Her hand is searing with heat and a high-pitched sting. She reminds herself, this doesn’t make a sound. Her ears feel packed and hot. One breath in, then she flicks her wrist and the glass slides upward and out. It drops lightly on the towel.
She can see the blood as it rushes to fill in the space left behind by the glass. It is black at the center when finally it spills over. Brooklyn puts the shard on the table then wraps her wounded hand tightly in the cloth. The shard, she notices, is very small. Much smaller than she thought when it was in her hand. The wound still feels occupied.
She relaxes into the chair and looks around. Death is cluttered, she thinks. Mugs surround her. There is one on each side of her like points on a compass. The closest mug is brown; it blends into the table. The tea has gotten weaker, she thinks, or perhaps she is losing her taste for it.
She has forgotten what it’s like to sleep through the night. At two a.m. Brooklyn is always here in the kitchen, surrounded by last swallows of tea and her reflection in the blackened window. Roland is asleep upstairs. Time rolls over itself and fills the crevices of the morning until she no longer remembers single nights, single reflections. She looks down at the blood soaked cloth and then at the speckled shard. This picture of blood seems to soak away the static memory of a hundred teacups under dim light. She shifts the cloth and it sticks to the wound then tears away and she feels new blood.
Brooklyn wonders if it will scar. She has so many now that age along her skin, shrinking, shifting, fading until they no longer resemble the once torn, the once sliced.
7 Responses to “Chapter 5: The Shard”
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ATOM 0.3
Like waiting against the gymnasium wall at a grade school dance.
First off I have to say the set up is marvelous; the redaer is in the scene and action right from the beginning and involved (!) caring and wondering. The fact that Brookyln is up at 2 am say a lot abou her character, and the way it is left simply said (at the start) is wonderful. That said I think I would take out the section "At two a.m. Brooklyn is always here in the kitchen, surrounded by last swallows of tea and her reflection in the blackened window" because I had that implied by the simple descriptoin of time and i didn't really need to be told it. Also, fantastic imagery and slowness; very concrete and I can glp these details down and be in this scene. If I had to change one thing I think i wouldn't have that one thought in there "Death is cluttered" because 1) I don't like the intrusion of the voice when you've done such a good job setting up the scene as silent with an atmosphere of importance and 2) the phrase seems way too dramatic. I really have no clue what it means in this context (which again is a part of a part of a novel I guess) but it seems much too heavy and didn't seem particularly connected to the scene. Other wonderous things: "occupied" great powerful word; the last paragraph; "high-pitched sting" which is exactly as it is I think. Looking forward to more.
Yeah, the "death is cluttered" thing worries me too. I'm lifting from joyce carol oates here. I use it in all of Brooklyn's scenes where she defines and redefines "death". It's more abstract than I've ever been before and I don't know how well I'm doing it...ie, I don't think I have the skill of direct statements down. I generally deal in subtlety.
your personification of a New York borough is a bit much i think....
I like the idea of the gradual transformation of the scars. It is an interesting inversion of the ways scars are usually portrayed as a cultural symbol of the unchanging, as in "they will always bear the scar of..." Here, the scar is still pervasive, but also remains dynamic, things which distance themselves from rather than perpetually remind us of the events which caused them. I realize it's two lines at the very end, but this is what caught my attention in this section.
I also caught on to the use of mugs, possibly because I think I use them in a similar way in some poetry of my own, and possibly because as I am writing this I am surrounded by them. I now only clean them when I need one, and I never put them away, so I can relate to the idea of using them as a way of situating the self. The mug is useful I think because it is an object of everyday use, a way in which to measure the passage of time, and because it is a vessel, designed to contain, to give a practical shape to the otherwise formless. I can't say for sure that you are using that image in any of these ways here, but it might be useful to think about.
I don't think I have a problem with the direct statement so much as I think it lacks context, both in character (is she the type of girl who would think that? why?) and scene. Yeah.
Darrell,
No, I totally agree. I am also surrounded by mugs. Hence the title of my other blog "accidental tea". Anywhere where I've spent time in a day is spotted with mugs filled with evaporating inches of leftover tea. And it seems the character in any of my stories who is surrounded by mugs is the one who takes the longest to develop, the one I give the most poetic space to. Maybe that's just narcissistic? The one who is the most like me is the one who takes her time coming into being. I don't know, but I do love your analysis of the mugs and of the scars. These vignettes are constantly doubling back on each other (I hope) and themes/images evolve between plates. So I come back to the scar and the mugs and slivers and you're analysis is really helpful to me right now.
Aaron,
I agree. Brooklyn has cysts on her overies. That's all the reader knows about her physical state right now and I bring it up in the first scene. I'm not even sure she is dying or that she has ovarian cancer or whether she is just dramatic, a person focused on her own death rather than on those around her. I'm debating that and because I don't know yet, I think the lines regarding death are forced.
Keep "Death is cluttered". "this doesn't make a sound" is more weakly self-conscious, I find. I liked the high pitched sting on its own, I already know they don't make a sound. They do, though. I love the detail about the glass being reddened on purpose. As usual, this is smooth and well-controlled.