Trust Is A Glass

Trust is a vase, easily broken, fragile. It doesn't have to be pretty to be valid, to call it's self a vase, to call itself trust. It comes in all shapes and sizes. It can be big and fat, it can be small and barely thin enough to be alive, but regardless it's trust. And once the trust is broken, there's no going back. There's no regaining it, no fixing it. You can try super glue and a diagram, this piece goes here, that piece goes there. But it won't work, not all the time, in fact; hardly ever.

The empty room is filled with a babies cry, a screaming child and I pray to myself that it won't be like all the other children, that it won't grow up to believe in fairy tales and human nature, that it won't believe in trust and boys that keep you awake at night with laughter and empty promises. I hope that she grows up and doesn't abandon her childhood, that she always believes in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, and never falls for men with pointed teeth and jealous prying eyes. 

I loved once, I loved the kind of man who would hold you tight in the street, to anyone else it would seem protecting, but to me, I knew better. I knew that he was holding me because he was reminding me that I was his. Reminding me, that he owned me, that he wanted to remind me of what he was capable of. 

I leave the small study where porcelain figures steal glances at me and wonder what happened to make me look like a tired fourty something year old, in my late 20's. The hall shines a blushed pink and a fiery orange with sunset, and still smells of that night's dinner, of sausages and boiled potatoes, peas and carrots. My hand instinctively shoots up to the cross on my neck, and my head whirrs as I pass the photos plastered to the wall. He used to tell me stories, to fill my head with wild fantasies, dreams, wishes. Trust is glass, like one of them types of bottles with the boats in. One day I'll climb into that boat, I'll set it loose in the water and sail away from life. No one will miss me, he won't miss me. He isn't even thinking about me, so why am I stuck thinking about him. 

I want to forget him, to move on with my child and be happy again, but I can't. He has his own child now, a young boy that goes by the name of Josh. Every time my eyes shut, I find myself thinking about Josh, what does he look like? Does he look like his father, wild blonde curls and dimples, brown freckles littering his cheeks and nose, or does he look like her? 

There is a point in life, when you notice your best friend has stopped doing what best friends do. She grew away from me, her phone sent my messages blue ticks but I never received any replies, she stopped talking to me, stopped writing to me, and started talking to my boyfriend instead. 

"Trust is forever." He told me once, with his arms around me and slow music dying in the background. I know now that he was wrong, trust is only temporary. 

My Nan always used to tell me that love makes the world go round, that without it people would die off, animals would die off. If that was true, where did heartbreak come into it? 

My heart was broken, my trust was torn, and stitches and patches weren't going to fix whatever was wrong with me. I was broken, and I can only hope that my daughter doesn't grow up to be the same. 

On the landing, are more pictures. But these are photos of my child, my own little girl, the gap where she lost her first tooth, her first ever ponytail, her first birthday where she wore a lion onesie and I made her a princess birthday cake. She is my heart, my life and soul. You broke me, she came into the world and fixed me. 

I push open her bedroom door, she is there, vulnerable to attack. Her pink hands are reaching out for comfort and her little face is twisted with agony and stained with tears. It takes me several minutes to comfort her and find out was wrong. 

She's been hurt, I promised when she came into this world that I would protect her, no matter what. That if you couldn't be there for her, I would. In the time it took me to cross the room, make my way downstairs to put the kettle on and flick through the channels, she hurt herself. I wasn't there for her, and she was trusting me to be. 

Trust, when you first look at it, from any perspective, it's a funny thing. How could anyone trust, in this day and age? How could babies trust their mothers to contain such a life inside them, that when the baby comes out the mother will be fine? How can men trust women to obey their every word, to never go against them for fear of hurting their masculinity. How can people trust their friends, to not screw up behind their backs. To not spill secrets like red wine and spread kisses like butter. 

How can I trust my daughter to grow up perfectly, to still believe in stories at the age of 30, 40, sixty. How can I trust my daughter to spread the joy of believing in fairies and Santa Claus. I want her to grow up, but not too quickly, I don't want her to loose her faith, to let go of her childhood and become an adult. So I open my palm in front of her, I watch her face light up and her hand reaches for the silver chain. I click it open, her face stares back at me, from the small picture in the locket, she's grinning, laughing at the camera. I know he betrayed me, but I also know that as long as she keeps the locket safe, she won't be betraying me.