The Glass Man

The sky is escaping to the ocean.

Pouring itself back to its most comfortable form in sheets. The ocean rages, reflecting the sky in even darker blues and greys. The sky whips with wind in confused chaos. The sea is not in a hospitable mood, yet a speck is caught in the midst of the raging argument between sky and sea.

An entity in a transparent boat. You would not dare call it human, a figure though - a delicate glass outline resembling a man. His smooth, transparent head stands out from the darkened world around him, inside swirls colourful thought – urgently trying to find a solution to the current predicament. Slim, stiff fingers try to grip the side of the little loyal boat; this is no use. His hands and fingers can’t find a grip and they slide up and down the rim like how the glass spheres slide underneath his lids. His knees bend in anticipation, balancing his stature-body over the rocky waves. His eyes look ahead, across the sea and focused on a strip of white sand belonging to a town, a certain house on the outskirts. He knows it resists his presence, yet in his heart it’s home and comfort – his escape from the lonely life he’s been living.

The ocean swells between the glass man and his destination. A monstrous wave rears up in front of the little boat and it’s like time stops just for it to loom over him. The Glass Man stands in his boat, his only foundation, and stares up. Arms hanging at his sides, head tilted up, eyes widening and shallow mouth opening in a silent scream. His beautiful mind explodes outward in fear before wrapping itself into a dark cloak.

The wave envelops him and his little loyal boat whole.

***

I had gone to bed angry last night. I always keep that frustration carefully bundled in a ball, like a star. A light for Dad, because he will always need my help. Last night the star had supernova’d. I was angry most of all at my anger.

I wake up feeling exactly as I want, as bright as the morning sun on my face. My anger has dissipated, left me completely and it’s such a lovely feeling. I walk out to the kitchen humming, I put on the kettle and water my windowsill plants. Their full leaves reaching up as their roots soak up the water of their various jars. I glimpse my cactus pot on the coffee table, browning and dried, I can't bring myself to water it. It seems absurd to water a cactus.

I stare vacantly into the quiet morning. The kettle starts steaming – then screaming and then there is a sharp rap at the front door, and someone yells my name.

“Nora!”

I rush to the door and open it to find plump Mrs Merra struggling as she holds the wrist of a thrashing, raging, fuming girl. The kettle still screams in the background.

The girl is me.

Oh, of course – this hasn’t happened in so long but how could I forget? Dread fills me.

“I’m so sorry Mrs Merra. He was a lot last night, it was a real ordeal with the storm and all. Thank you so much for catching her” I lean out the door and replace Mrs Merra’s firm hand with my own, pulling my second self inside.

Mrs Merra frowns at me, concerned. “Alright Deary? Tell that dreary old Dad of yours to find his joy again. I’m always here to talk over a cuppa.”

“No use Mrs Merra, I’ll figure something out. Thanks again!” I slam the door and turn on my heel. Myself and I stare at each other. She scowls, making the mole at the corner of her – my – brow disappear in the fold of skin. Finally, she huffs, and with a flick of waist length auburn hair and an irritated eye roll, falls forward.

My chest feels instantly heavier, my anger from last night back to its original unwelcoming home. I close my eyes and coil it tight into my chest once again.

***

Long after the motion ceases, the Glass Man’s mind continues quivering within its dark cloak. Slowly, it unravels itself to the outside world and the Glass Man blinks in the morning sun. Too bright, the mind goes back into the safety of the cloak. He is close.

***

Our house is set at the edge of town, furthest away from the forever rolling water. I managed to get a job at the town's small sculpture studio, they liked my creativity and visions. Dad says creativity is useless, he says a lot of things. The town says he hasn’t had a creative bone in his body since a young man.

After work, I walk barefooted along the beach. The stillness of the hazy orange dusk surrounds me, giving off the illusion that everything is quiet after the storm. The clouds are pink. I look further ahead and see seagulls flocking together in chaos. Who knows what the sea swallowed and spat out last night.

I approach, it’s a glass boat turtled down. Stuck inside are fish flopping around in a small pool of water, so close yet so secluded from their ocean. I start to walk around and my foot catches something smooth and in the next moment I am in the cold sand. When I turn around to see what I tripped over, I see more smooth glass, rising out of out of the sand in a shape of a man. He turns to me. The dusk light illuminates his figure, shining through it. My heart rate speeds up at the peculiarity of what I’m witnessing, I’m paralysed. In the middle of his head sits a dark mass. Ominous. All I want to do is run, but when he reaches a hand to me, I reach back. On contact, his dark mind bursts outwards in swirls of colour.

I am no stranger to the absurd, though a transparent man is something else.

“What – who are you?” I stutter.

No answer.

“Where are you from?”

He stares, and I start to think he’s incapable of answering until his mind starts to shift. It sorts itself into colours before shapes start to emerge. The foggy image turns clear and detailed. It’s a house, a very familiar one.

“Add some vines to the porch railings.” The vines I planted a few years ago.

The Glass Man does as I say.

“How do you know my house?”

He lifts a hand, tentatively pointing a finger at me as if confirm. Yours?

“Mine, follow me.” I glance back one more time at the glass boat, what happened here? I walk home with a man of glass at my heels.

I momentarily hide the glass man in the shed and walk inside. Dad sits on the old red armchair. It used to be Mum’s. Calm piano music plays in the vinyl behind him. He’s slouched, eyes half closed and his hand floating in front of him. His fingers are loose, hitching upward for each emphasising note. His hand starts to sway and twitch in the crescendo; as if he’s controlling a puppet. In his lap is a picture book I’ve never seen. I creep closer, Dad pays no attention to me. I reach to flip the page. Just as I lift it up, Dad finally realises I’m there and stops my hand. He stares at me, slams the book and gets up. As he walks away, I think of the photos I glimpsed on the next page. An art studio, and Dad – my joy-blank Dad – in the middle with my mother, painting a beautiful creation.

My anger from last night is quelled, but now sadness fills me. It pains me that I’ve never seen that side of my Dad. It’s all too much, I sit on my bed until I lose track of time – until the feeling is overwhelming and I’m squeezing my eyes shut to try and block out the feeling. I sit that way for a time, drowning, until it all seeps away and I’ve calmed myself.

Moments later, I open my eyes again and I’m face to face with myself. Bruises are under her eyes and a single tear slides down her cheek. I don’t stop her when she goes to open the window, when she escapes through the window and over the flower bushes to the outside world. I know I should stop her but I’m too relieved. It’s only when I hear a crash outside the other side of the house that I’m spurred into action.

I don’t find my runaway self, I stand outside the shed to see the door open and Dad’s silhouette within. I feel the layers of my life burying me in this moment, preparing for another to be added by the event of my Dad finding so strange a being in his shed.

“Dad!” I run to his side. “Look, he’s not-”

“Stay back.” His eyes don’t leave the Glass Man backed into the corner between the shelves, boxes and the old blank canvases. Dad reaches across me, grabbing the biggest shovel and stepping into the threshold.

“Dad, wait. I promise-”

“I don’t know what you want to promise me in this situation Nora. All I know is that this isn’t right.”

I start to hear a wailing and my breath catches. I can't think about that right now, she’s not my priority, I can barely hear the ocean.

The Glass Man tries to creep closer, his mind speeding through images of the house and Dad. Dad looks younger in his mind, it's like he’s showing memories. Dad keeps the shovel held out in front of him, mesmerised. Then, the images change, we watch oceans and isolation.

“What are you trying to tell us?”

“Be quiet.” Dad whisper-shouts.

The Glass Man creeps closer.

“Dad, I know this is strange, but I think we should-”

“Keep back!’ Dad interrupts me once again, but this time Dad swings toward me in one motion. The shovel smashes into the Glass Man’s stomach. Cracks start to spiderweb his frame and he attempts a few leaning steps toward Dad. I look into the Glass Man’s face one more time and he smiles, relieved, before shattering across the shed floor at our feet.

I think I understand. The colourful mind stays intact, hovering among the shattered glass which crunches beneath my feet as I go to scoop it up. Dad looks startled as I walk back towards him, holding the mind in my palms. It’s heavy and warm. I lift it to his brow, pouring it out of my palms and back into his mind.

***

Days pass in ways they never have, though we still haven’t found my rejected self. I’m sitting at the coffee table thinking about what Mrs Merra said to me yesterday over our tea.

“Your father was a great artist. Though when your Mama got sick, that creative side of his weren’t helping her much, so he pushed it down and apparently out. A person cannot be human without all of themselves.”

I want to mourn the time I’ve lost with him, but I can't. I have spent my life pushing parts of me away for him, just like him.

Dad stomps into the room, he radiates joy in his new painting shirt. I heard him weeping last night.

His eyes land on the cactus and narrow. He grabs a cup and fills it at the sink. “Nora, even cacti need water, they flower too” He hands me the cup and I lean over to water my cactus.

He smiles and holds out his hand, “Let's keep searching.”