Shatter

I vaguely remember the beginning. Not the very beginning. I have been around for a long time, dormant. I was part of something so much bigger. I stretched for miles and miles, thick and damp and red, shielded from the sun by my dryer and pebble-full brothers. I lived this way for the longest time, likely most of the time that had ever passed, or rather since the Earth started to be warm and wet and livable.

Before the beginning, I felt everything. I felt the roots of the trees dig deeper and deeper into me and my layered siblings, absorbing our nutrients, feeding themselves. Above ground, they grew branches and leaves, reaching towards the sun. When the leaves fell, we ate them, to feed the trees again. I felt the rain drizzle through the cracks in the dry crust above, refreshing me after long and dry summers. I heard the rivers run, carve their way into the earth, overflow and then dry out over and over. I enjoyed the lakes, oases of calm in the chaos of the living, and fed little bits of myself to the colorful fish that glimmered in the sunlit water. I housed the worms and endless other critters, keeping them safe from the peckish birds above. We lived in a perfect cycle, unperturbed.

Things began to change as chatter got louder at the surface. The humans started taking parts of me, ripping me from the wet earth with their bare hands. They molded me into pots and pitchers and plates and even little statues, and tossed me into the fire. The fire burnt, until I felt nothing. I wondered if the burnt parts of me were still there, cut off but still living, still feeling.

I became an amputated limb much later on. The world had changed so much, so quickly. The humans had become so many, so curious, so greedy, so destructive. In what seemed to be an instant, the trees were ripped out, the rivers dried out permanently, the bustling critters disappeared one after the other, and the fish were carried off into glass tanks. I sat, feeling myself getting sicker and sicker, poisoned by the humans and their filth, gnawed on over and over.

The extraction was unbearable. It was my death, and my first rebirth. I could no longer keep up with all the rumbling, drilling, digging, rolling, choking, burning, that I experienced daily. For the first time since the very beginning, the earth was quiet, drowned out by the ever-growing noise of the humans. There were no more trees, no more worms, no more fish to warn me of the incoming bulldozer. The earth rumbled loudly, the grass and critters screaming in pain as they got flattened. The birds, who once upon a time would not leave me alone, flew off in fear. The growling metal husk mechanically lifted its trunk and ruthlessly stabbed into me, eviscerating me. As the pain burned hotter than a thousand forest fires, I looked up and saw the burning sun, then looked down and saw myself, my brethren, my family, my earth, and knew I could no longer hear them.

I was taken to the factory, cleaned and strained and emptied and killed over and over again. I was chopped up even further, and singled out into little uniform blocks, predictable and identical, nothing like the wild earth I had known for the entirety of time. The rest was a blur, muffled by the translucent coating they put me in. I came to learn it was plastic, a soulless material, so deeply terrifying, made from the earth but unable to ever return to it, silent because it had never been alive. I feared I would turn into it.

I felt alive again when her fingertips touched me. I had disappeared into limbo, transported from warehouse to warehouse, from store to store, cut off from the outside world by the plastic barrier. I woke up to a warm and comfortable light, a relatively quiet place, nothing but the sound of whirring wheels and a calm music. A few humans moved around, their movements slow and deliberate, sometimes clumsy, but mostly gentle. I looked up to the eyes of the hands that held me. Dark, sad orbs that twinkled nonetheless. Unlike the human who was always there, bubbly and energetic, this human was slow, quiet, even furtive. She reminded me of the little mice that burrowed into me and hid for the winter.

This was the human’s first attempt at handling me, and it showed. Her hands shook as she attempted to mold me into a plate, a bowl, a vase, but it never worked. Her frustration was building up. It was obvious, despite her seemingly calm face. She gave up quicker, and insisted on restarting. She claimed she worked better from zero. The happy human’s presence, which helped her at first, became oppressive. She no longer listened to the happy human. The happy human noticed this, and gracefully left her alone. She sat in the room for hours, attempting to knead me into shapes she wasn’t capable of producing. I watched her intently, feeling her emotions through the labor of her hands. Her hands were clammy and felt fresh and damp against me, tossing and molding me smoothly. The feeling was inebriating, injecting me with life after my death. At the 27th failure, she mashed me back down with more force than before, over and over, until it became clear that she was punching me. She let out a sound that reminded me of toads croaking, a sob of despair. She lifted her hands to hold her crying face, but realized they were covered in… well, me. She dropped her hands to her knees, defeated, and let the tears fall. They landed on my crumpled form. Her grief was refreshing.

The human cried until the tears ran out. Then, she sniffled, took a deep breath, and began again. She was gentle, careful, but determined. After a while, she was able to shape me into a plate. I didn’t look as good as the other plates, but I was, undeniably, a plate. I felt proud of the human, and as I looked into her eyes again, I saw that she was proud too.

The human carefully placed me into the kiln, and I was anxious for her to let me go. I was anxious of the flames that were hotter than any ray of sun that could dry me out. But the fire was not what I thought it was. I hardened, becoming stronger, definitely a plate now, not “possibly a vase” or “maybe a little figurine”, but a plate. I felt myself becoming something else, something new, something definite. I was also proud of myself.

The second day, the human painted me. She picked up the brush and dipped it into paint the color of summer leaves. She slathered me with it, unevenly but carefully. While she painted, I was possessed with memories that weren’t mine: a flowering field, hands held while running, children’s laughter, spring dresses, sleeping in flowerbed, faces stained with mulberries, caterpillars picked from shins. The human looked at me with tenderness, a small smile floating on her lips. Then, she left me to dry again. I waited for hours, days even. I saw the sun rise and fall many times as I sat on the shelf with all of my silent and differently formed brethren.

It felt painfully long. When I was in the earth, I could not tell whether a millennia or a day had passed. But now, on the shelf, I felt the crushing weight of each day, hour, minute, second. I watched all the others be reclaimed from the shelves next to me. I waited.

After what seemed longer than the Ice Age but was simply 6 days 16 hours and 35 minutes, the human came back. She was not smiling that day. I wished she would. As she grabbed the tiniest brush and painted white petals on my dry green skin, I wished she would think of beautiful things again. Words overlapped in her mind, too fast and jumbled for me to understand it. I was just a plate, after all. But her soul felt like the dark ocean before a storm, with dark clouds forming in the horizon. Even the fresh droplets of paint didn’t feel good today, and I kept an eye on her, worried.

After adding other small details, the human put away her brush. She looked at me for a second. Then, it was as if the veil had lifted. Her eyes twinkled with pride as she looked at me, a plate-to-be, decorated like the field of flowers and wild berries of her childhood. She brought me to the vat of foul-smelling liquid. I did not like this vat, as it went against everything I knew. It was a killing liquid, something not formed in nature. Poison. But I knew what this liquid meant — I was almost complete. Soon, the human would take me home. So, I braced myself. I braved the poison and endured the fire, and, soon enough, I was ready.

The human’s home was very different from the pottery store. Where the store was simple, minimal, spacious, and quiet, her home was cluttered, crowded yet cozy, and very, very loud. The human lived with two smaller humans, and one other bigger and hairier human. She put me on a shelf in the room where they spent the most time. I sat proudly next to the picture frames, occasionally collecting dust, but knowing she would clean it off eventually. She always cleaned me with such care.

In this room, the little ones would run around, and the big human loafed, staring at the moving pictures on the screen for hours. My human barely sat. She was always everywhere, picking up after the other humans, sometimes attempting to get their attention about one thing or another. I wondered if they were capable of hearing her, or if she was invisible to them, because they seemed to ignore her every time she spoke to them. The three of them seemed to form a little group, of which she had no part.

Each evening, the little ones would disappear into their rooms, and the big loaf would begin drinking. His face would get red, and his eyelids heavy. Most nights, he would fall asleep. My human looked relieved at the sight, enjoying a rare moment of silence. She eventually would throw a blanket over the big loaf, and retire to her room, a small smile of satisfaction on her face. Sometimes, though, he would stay awake. He would grab my human in ways that made her visibly uncomfortable. She would flash him a grimace resembling a smile, nothing like the actual smiles she had shown me. He would pull her into the room, she’d follow, dragging her feet. I would hear faint grunts for a short while, followed by his loud snores. I knew my human hated these nights, because she would frown all morning the next day.

For a while, I kept watch on my human. Sometimes, she had friends over, and they would drink and eat and laugh. It made me very happy. Other times, when she had busy and overwhelming days, she would look at me and smile a little, before carrying on. I felt like I had a purpose. I was her guardian, a glimpse of happiness to keep her going on.

This didn’t last long, unfortunately. On an especially loud day, where both the loaf and the little ones were at home, our story would end. The little ones, ever so agitated, were running after each other in the room. One of them, the slightly bigger one, bumped into the shelf, making everything shake. This wasn’t my first rodeo, as the little ones were always disruptive and would shake even the heavens, but as I tilted a bit deeper than usual, I felt a deep fear.

I fell in slow motion, holding my human’s gaze as her eyes widened. I saw her raise her hand, attempting to save me, but she was too far, and I fell too quickly.

I shattered.

It didn’t hurt. I hadn’t felt pain in a while, numbed by the fire and glaze. My human rushed to me, frantically picking up my pieces. Hot tears burned her eyes as they landed on my remains. I wanted to tell her that I was okay, that she could simply glue me back together. I had seen it in the store. My scars could even be golden. But alas, I was a plate, unable to talk. She looked at me like I was dead. Maybe to her, I was.

At this, the loaf approached my human, his heavy footsteps making the hardwood floor quake. He looked at her with what could only be described as disgust. Then, the worst event in history transpired. He held his belly and laughed. It was a deep, loud, and terrible sound. My human looked up at him, her eyes filled with hatred, tears streaming down her face. The little ones joined in, pointing and laughing at her.

She hastily picked up my pieces. She didn’t realize, however, that my edges had become jagged. I dug into her skin, drawing blood. It leaked onto me, burning hotter than any fire. I felt so ashamed of hurting her. Especially after she had been hurt so much by the other humans. The last I saw of my human was a sad and defeated expression, before the trash lid shut on me, leaving me alone in the dark.

Today, I live in the dumpster. I lay on the ground, amongst foul-smelling and burnt fragments of a plethora of different things. The earth is no longer green but black, from fire and sludge. I am so close to my home, to where I came from. I am there, but I am not. For I have changed, and so has my home, and we can never be one again. I can never return to the earth. I can never be clay again, for I am now nothing but a shattered plate.