Broken Glass and New Beginnings

The window matches the rest of the house. Grimy, covered in years of dirt and memories that no amount of cleaning can make a dent in.

I should know. I’ve tried. But soap can’t erase memories, not even from a window like this. 

The hammer feels familiar in my hand. I hate the familiarity, actually—just another reminder of the life I’m trying to forget. 

But today is demolition day. Demolition of this house, in preparation for a new restaurant, and demolition of my old life in preparation for the new. A clean slate.

That’s a good thing, right?

I don’t know how to answer the question. 

The answer seems obvious, considering I’ve spent the last...how many years, now? Seventeen, I think. Seventeen years trying to forget the past. 

But the past has gotten me here, hasn’t it?

Maybe it’s not something I should try and forget.

***

Wren was only 16 when she took off.

Far away from her father, from the family that all-too-clearly didn’t want her. From the pain, and heartbreak, and loneliness of living in her own little bubble, locked in her room, left alone to her own devices.

She wouldn’t feel that again. Not now, on the dusty streets of her city that bordered the Sahara. 

Wren would have to find a way to make a living, hopefully save up for a house or something. Finding a job would be easy—she could do anything from bartending to fast food. It was in the in-between, the time from when she started to when she raised enough for a place to stay, that the problem rested. 

Wren could sleep on the streets with just the pack on her back, for all she cared. As long as she was out of that house. 

And sleep on the streets she did. 

The first order of business, she decided in the morning, was to find a job. Technically, she’d decided that the day before, but she figured it would be better to ask around when the alleyways weren’t shrouded in darkness, hiding criminals ready to ambush any unsuspecting visitor. 

However, considering the sand and dust currently coating every inch of her, Wren began to question her decision. She would never get a job in a nice place, not looking like this. She was a mess.

With nothing else to do, though, Wren shouldered her pack and trudged through the streets in search of someone to question about a job. 

The streets were desolate. Considering the midsummer heat beating down on her shoulders and the sweat trickling down her back, Wren couldn’t blame people for staying inside, but still. She needed a job, or at least some air conditioning.

When the heat got to be too much, Wren ducked inside the nearest building. A tavern. Probably too busy for comfort, but there wasn’t another option for an escape from the sun. Besides, she wouldn’t be staying long. 

Ironically, that tavern was where Wren spent most of the next couple years, when she wasn’t on the run. People paid well for small favors, and the occasional vengeance mission got Wren even more.

She was a natural bounty-hunter. More of a criminal-for-hire, actually, because she took any jobs she could, but it paid enough for her to get a dingy room in the tavern’s basement. Wren never gave her name to the owner, and he never gave his name in return, but as long as she stayed out of the way of his underground dealings, he tolerated her. 

Eventually, a tiny house across the paved road caught Wren’s eye. It was pristine, even glowed sometimes in her eyes, and it was the perfect size for her to live alone. There was only one problem, one that Wren discovered one night while scouting out the place through the window.

That house was already owned, by a wealthy-looking businessman, no less.

And, after a short conversation with him, Wren learned that the house was most definitely not for sale. 

***

I can’t bring myself to raise the hammer, or tear my gaze away from the window. 

The same window I used to look through, watching a certain wealthy businessman pace. The only difference is that now, instead of being out on the dusty streets, I live here.

But I never bought the house, not really. Identity fraud can do wonders for an 18-year-old. 

Identity fraud and other things.

My grip tightens on the hammer.

***

Wren flew under the radar, doing favors, gaining a reputation in the tavern, until her eighteenth birthday. 

She couldn’t stay in the tavern forever, and that stupid businessman wouldn’t sell her the house anytime soon. 

She had to get that house.

And she knew exactly how she was going to do it.

Wren had watched the mini black market under the tavern thrive and grow for the past year, and she decided it was about time she got involved. 

The plan formed slowly, and the technical details that could get her arrested were too many to count, but one-by-one, Wren worked out the solutions. The plan was a twisted mash-up of identity fraud, breaking and entering, and another crime that Wren was reluctant to acknowledge, but she would go through with it.

It was only one time, and if she didn’t get caught, she could live a normal life from the moment she got the house and on. Her entire plan hinged on this one moment, and despite her fears and the moral dilemma it presented, she knew she would go through with it.

She had to.

She convinced herself of that on the short walk through the pitch-black desert night to the house in question, with her rusty hammer in hand. It felt foreign, especially considering the two things she was about to use it for, but she clenched her fingers and pulled up outside the window.

It was still pristine. Still spotless. It would be gone in a few short moments, but Wren could always replace it. 

Wren swung the hammer.

The glass shattered. 

There was still the hard part of her plan to get over with, but this was the beginning of a new life for her. The wall, or window, rather, holding her back was gone now. Crushed to pieces underfoot.

Wren climbed into the house. 

Just this once. 

It went against everything she believed, but she only had to do it just this once. 

Get rid of the man, then the house would be hers. 

***

I take a deep breath and raise my hammer, wanting to close my eyes but unable to stop looking at that cursed window. 

It will be gone in a few short moments, but the new owners of this house can always replace it. 

I swing the hammer.

The glass shatters. 

A new beginning for me. I can finally forget the old life, forget how I got this house, be a legitimate person from now on.

That’s what I told myself last time. 

Just this once.

But this time, as I crush the slivers of glass under my soles, I mean it.