Painted Glass

I traced my finger across the glass, the smudge of oil trailing behind incapable of marring the crystalline pane of the door. Nothing could dull the brilliance of the world beyond: the vibrance of the daffodils sprouting through the last mounds of winter’s snow, the brightness of the sun blaring from the spotless sky above. My eyes strained against the glare, begging me to squint, to shield myself from the relenting rays. But I embraced the warmth, basking in the first taste of spring. It was a welcomed reprieve after the weeks of bitter, merciless cold.  

A silhouette ascended the crest of the path ahead, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with buckets and brushes along the packed dirt of the trail with casual ease. Her head bobbed to and fro, lips relaxed as she lost herself to whatever music blared from her earbuds. I grinned at her, pleased to see a face so carefree, so jubilant. It had been some time since I had seen someone like her. And the only thing that I wanted was to feel the same way. All I needed to do was open the door.  

But as I looked down, there was no handle, no latch. I brought both of my hands to the pane, pressing methodically, curious as to why I could not find that knob. Besides the accumulating prints of my desperation splaying across my view, stacking in overlying lines like a toddler’s hand print painting, there was nothing, not even a dent or a seam. The pane was flawless, extending across the dips and swells of the grassy knolls into the fields beyond, almost fading into nothingness as it merged into the horizon.

Strange. I could have sworn I held the handle a minute ago. 

She was close now. I could see the brushes, tins, and cloth stuffed in between the unopened cans haphazardly, quivering with each stone or branch the wheelbarrow rolled over. But everything stayed in place. Her worn overalls were torn at the knees, stained with dirt and dried flecks of paint. A single strap slung over her shoulder, but the woman did not seem to mind. My smile broadened, an obvious invitation for her to let me through. I gestured to the wheelbarrow, my hand moving in concentric stripes in pantomime as I asked if she needed a hand. With that much paint, she would probably be relieved for the help.

I know she saw me. She pulled out a single earbud for a brief moment, as though trying to hear me through the glass. The bud danced between her fingers as she considered me. Her head inclined slightly in recognition, but the ease of her expression was suddenly lost, replaced with one I could not decipher. 

It was her gaze that finally betrayed her, one that pierced through the glass, into my eyes, and through a primal part of me that knew from that moment, she would not let me through. 

In fact, she couldn’t even if she tried. Even if she wanted to. 

So she didn’t. 

Her eyes cast down, now intently focused on prying the buckets of paint open before her. She stacked them in neat rows on the ground, soldiers preparing for battle, each armed with their own brush. The paint was the same, institutionalized grey, swallowing the light into its depths. It siphoned not just the light of the sun, but that of the woman before me. 

She tucked her earbud back in place, successive quick taps to the side all that she needed for the music to resume. And the woman fell into the melody, allowing the chorus to drag her through the motions of what she was forced to do. The woman grabbed a brush in each hand, ignoring the dribbles of grey climbing down her arms like veins as she gripped the handles. Her knuckles blanched as she clutched the smooth wood, fingers linked like metal chains, clasped so tightly as though to lock herself to the brushes. Without warning, she flicked her wrist like a conductor, the beat of the tune unmistakable as specks of paint sprung from the bristles. And with the first swipe of paint across the glass, the light before me began to dim. 

The woman worked quickly, her movements frenetic and compulsed, the subtle swaying of her body to the silent tune her only solace. Her teeth locked in a pained grimace, and her eyes narrowed, following her drying strokes and struggling to ignore my own. All I could only hear was the sound of my desperation, coherent pleas morphing into muddled shrieks as she began to disappear entirely. My throat burned, my voice unable to pierce the glass. 

The fading sun was not due to its setting; it was from the globs of paint slapped thickly on the glass drying into an impenetrable sheen of slate. I ran from her, chasing the light, but like dye dripped in water, the grey diffused, the glass succumbing to inevitable ruin. My eyes blurred and burned, the breath in my chest ragged as I fought to escape the fixated grasp of ravenous shadow. I fought through the pain, struggling despite the weight in my limbs and the heaviness of exhaustion. And while I wanted to deny them, the whispered promises of false consolation were impossible to ignore. 

It’s too late. 

There’s nothing you can do. 

You’ve lost. 

The bite of rejection eventually healed with time. The burden of failure slowed the journey but did not stop it. The path that was laid before me, the life beyond it that led to a bare canvas that I was meant to fill, was snatched away with each stroke of flattened paint. 

Defeat was redefined. 

I screamed in the encroaching dark, the echoes of my cries consumed by shadow, muffled by infinite obstructions I could not see in the endless black. My fists bled with each strike, the glass beneath my skin shattering into bursts of shards that crashed onto the floor below. But rather than feeling the warmth of air beyond, seeing a glimpse of the sun’s rays, the pane did not break. But I did not stop. With each pound of my fist flayed my flesh, the pain was the only reminder I needed. 

I did not relent.

I did not quit.

I did not break. 

I did not count each futile strike. I found my own rhythm, refusing to yield, refusing to accept the inevitable fate that yeared to claim me. So long as I continued, hope was not lost. 

But there was only so much blood one could bleed before the end. 

My body betrayed me. I collapsed, my limp form sliding down to the ground like the corpse of an unsuspecting bird whose death was dealt by a transparent plane of glass. My bloody fingers were useless as they slipped against the surface, clutching for purchase they never found. Limbs askew and body fighting unconsciousness, my eyes flicked to the abyss of black above, searching for something, for anything, to deter my descent into oblivion. 

As though acknowledging my final petition, my eyes flashed white, a break in the darkness assaulting my vision. I thought it was a hallucination, but I had never seen a sight so clearly. And it was one I wished I could forget. 

A perfect square of incandescent light punched through the darkness, the flare of fluorescence blaring from within. It flickered intermittently, pulsing as though it were on the verge of burning out. But the light obscured slightly as a beady eye defiled the otherwise impeccable space. A thick, unkempt brow crawled above the lid, long strands of grey climbing through the coarse hair like a weed. The skin was sallow, the bags unmistakable as they pulled the lower lid towards the bottom of the window, exposing the inflamed, membranous tissues beneath. The pupil darted through the dark, greedily probing, hunting, for something, for someone… for me. It did not take him long.

I did not need to see the entirety of his face to know he was smiling. His eyes widened, the bloodshot vessels expanding like flooded rivers as his protuberant eyes bulged even further. His brow rose, fluttering like an insect as his gaze honed in. It was not curiosity or concern that transformed his leering, but pomposity. His stare was lecherous, stripping me bare, reducing me to nothing more than my body, my function. It ignored me, as though my mind and intentions meant nothing. I was one to be exploited, one to be abused. One best left bloodied, broken, and subdued. I did not need to hear his words to know his thoughts. His arrogance was more contagious than any plague. With a final pulse of his bulbous eye, he disappeared. 

The glare of fluorescents remained, the inaudible hum personified in each shudder of the bulb. I did not know where he was going, and I did not care to think what was yet to come. 

I spotted flakes falling from above. They drifted lazily like snow, spiraling in senseless circles before dissolving completely in the dark. I lifted my arms toward the light, hoping for the crisp respite of snow, knowing that the cold would confirm I was not completely confined, that there was an escape. As a flake struck my skin, it did not melt; it burned, charring my already tarnished, tender flesh. I hissed in pain, only to inhale a thick cloud of smoke. The sudden waft choked me, wisps of ash blaring in my throat with each struggling breath. As the rolling smog threatened to suffocate me, final promises of condescension burned worse than ash. 

You are worthless.

Only a fool would hope.

This is only the beginning.

I screamed again, my words drenched in poison and spite, stealing my every breath. 

But they did not listen. 

I shoved myself from the ground, the flesh in my palms searing as I forced myself to my knees, as I pushed my knees to extend.

But they waited for me to fall. 

I stumbled in the dark, grasping at plumes of smoke, searching for something, for anything, to fight back. 

But they would not arm me. 

The light continued to flitter above, offering no answers. It was meant as a taunt, as a sliver of hope that would never come to fruition. It was a gift in an otherwise endless sea of night that would ultimately be seen as a mockery, as nothing would come of it. 

It was meant to show me the way to the end. 

And there would be some who would submit, who would think there was no other way. Who would think compliance was the only option for survival. It would be easy to think that, when it seems as though all your power had been stripped away. 

But they did not know where true power lay. They did not know what true power was. 

I stared into the light, ignoring the ridicule of that unseeing gaze, basking in the fury of that moment, and the countless moments before. The pain reminded me of the struggle. The darkness reminded me of what was lost. The light was not an insult, but a destination. 

And I would persist.