Rated

Today was going to be a day like any other. I wake up at the same hour. I wore the same clothes. I did the same chores. I behaved in the same way. There is only reason why I’m saying it WAS going to be a normal day is because of two events that turned everything upside down: First, today I was getting a year older. I once heard my mother saying that everyone celebrates being one day closer to death, so of course a party was to be expected. Me not taking much part on it was to be expected, too. And so was having to compensate the lack of guests with the friends of my siblings. This ritual repeats itself once per year, it does not change things much.

What I did not expect, and what really mattered, was the second thing: having a window as a gift. I’m sure it does sound like a pretty boring gift to everyone. Nonsensical, even. This was by far the most bizarre thing that happened to me in my otherwise normal, predictable, planned life.

Now, I’m not sure if I could keep it that way, especially with this window in my power.

I’m holding the window right now. It has the shape of a perfect square, a square that is not much bigger than a fist. The frames are truly a work of art, very polished and decorated with a lot of flowers that look like they growth from the wood. They are nice to the touch, even.

However, you cannot say the same about the glass. It is all shattered, to the point it seems like a puzzle put together. Strangely, if you look at it, it will reflect you back. Windows are supposed to let you see through them, right? Everyone would think it is a mirror.

Well, anybody except the person who gave it to me.

“How does this look like a mirror to you?”

I still remember my father’s face when I thanked him for the mirror. It seemed like he really could not understand how I reached that conclusion, as if it the window did not resembled a mirror at all. But that is understandable. We do not have the same eyes, even when everyone says they look identical. I know it and I came to accept that, but father, in the other hand…

“You have some strange way of thinking.”

Imagine hearing that from the same person that gave you a gift wrapped in fabric. Not in a box, not in gift wrapping, not even using newspapers. Fabric.

“It’s not a mirror! It’s a window. And a portable one!”

I was not sure how I was supposed to interpret that. Was I receiving a pocket window? A window to put whenever I found a hole on a wall? Was it just one of father’s jokes? No, he would not do that. He knows I never laugh.

“So is this a broken window?” I finally asked him the question I suppressed in order to not come off as a complainer.

“Would a broken mirror be better?”

Probably. I can still see myself despite the damaged glass. I highly doubt I will ever get into a building without windows. Let alone one with worse windows than this one.

Yet, I never verbalized that thought, as I did not want father to take it the wrong way. It was just a logical response that may or may not be perceived as rude. I was not willing to take the risk.

“Listen, I know it’s confusing. How can I explain…?”

Then, everything started to make sense and not making it at the same time. According to father, not everybody gets one of these for their birthday. He assured that it was literally priceless.

If he did not purchase it, then how did he get it? Did he used another form of payment? I could not stop myself from asking that, and his response did not help much.

 “Don’t overthink it. You only have to discover its function not its origin.”

So, it turns out he wants me to figure out how to use a broken window. He already knows how, yet he would not tell because…

“I consider you’re old enough to have free thinking and will. I won’t tell you how to use it in any sense. It’s all up to you.”

It was good to know that father thought of me as a mature person. It really was. But I have the feeling that being a ten year old is being too young. When I told that to father, he was not very affected. Instead, he joked about how lucky he was to have me as a proof that a decade passed by, because he would not be able to tell by the image he saw on the mirror. After the awkward silence that followed my lack of laughter, he kept confusing me.

“I mean, it’s not a toy, neither is a weapon. Although, it may be. I trust you to make…”

“The right choice?”

“I don’t think there’s a right choice. I trust you to make the best use of it, for whatever you want. That’s the closest thing you can get to a right choice, don’t you think so?”

Father just gave me permission to do anything I wanted. Anything except acknowledging the existence of the window, apparently. He was very adamant about it; do not tell your mother, do not tell your siblings, do not use it on public, do not let others see it. Do not even talk about it with me unless I ask for it.

Why giving me the window if it is so much of a problem? Then there is that weird phrase he said before I left.

“And keep this in mind: curtains will block your view!”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Maybe it means how to use it.”

He said maybe. Maybe. Whenever father says “maybe” is never actually maybe. It’s either an affirmation or an absolute no. If it was a clue about how to use it or how not to use, is something I’ll have to find out.

It’s already dark outside, according to the not-especial window in my room. According to the rules, I should have been sleeping one hour ago. And according to my instincts, I’m very close to discover what’s so good about this hand-window, so there’s no time for sleeping.

I have already tried turning it down. I shook it, spoke to it, put it through the sunlight, writing on the glass…the only thing left is hanging it on the wall, but I will need something for…

For taking it off the floor. Honestly, I’m surprised that the glass did not shattered more than it already was, I must have dropped it from at least one meter.

No, no that’s not surprising as looking at your father’s library trough the floor. The very same library that you know is one flat under your own room. It is like looking through a hole in the floor, or like a…

Window.

Did I just really put a window in the floor?

Yes, the cracks around the image proved there was still a glass. Thankfully, they were not enough to bother my sight. The moonlight was pretty much a white sun tonight, illuminating all the books, the portraits, the shelfs…everything looking just how it should look. There is no doubt. This is indeed, a window.

A portable one.

Which also implies is removable, so I’m grabbing it. The window does not leave the floor that easily, as it shows a slight resistance, but nothing harder than taking some tape off. Once is in my hands, I’m greeted with my face in the glass.

I guess I could use this window as a mirror whenever I’m not using it in the floor. Or in the walls. Or in the door. Or in any flat surface. Well, any flat surface that does not have fabric on it, as it did not work on my bed nor in the rug. I had to spend a reasonable amount of time awake trying this and that to reach that conclusion, but I do no regret. Now, I can see the library under my room, my brother’s room at the right and the bathroom at the left. The window may be a bit small to see much, yet that hardly means a problem when I can just move the window around to see more of the area.

And that only applies to my room. What if I tried it all over the house? In my parent’s room, for example.

-What the hell? Are you serious?

Hearing my mother saying that stopped me from using the window. There was no need to see what was happening, if I could easily listen to it instead.

By the way, how comes she is not sleeping already?

-Is there any rule that forbids carpeting something that isn’t a floor?

Same goes for father. In fact, sleeping at 10 pm was a rule he imposed.

-Yes. Common sense. A room with carpeted walls will look terrible. Imagine a carpeted ceiling.

-Even better! I can be the first to have one!

-Listen, I do not care if you want to carpet your library.

-Good, because I’m totally carpeting it.

-But this room is ours and I do not like with your decision.

-I don't like to see you putting in a box all those cockroaches that you didn't let me kill to breed them later ... and I bet anyone who just read that is disgusted.

Can you unheard something?

-People should stop stigmatizing cockroaches. By the way, who reads what?

-Nevermind. The point is, I tolerated your strange decision. Tolerate mine, at least.

-…Fine, I will.

Father sure is preparing himself for the days to come. Days that probably will be normal, as all I’m planning to do is just looking through a window.