Gingerly I reach for another shard of glass. I move in slow motion. Though it is still morning, I am drained. Carefully one piece then another piece. I don't want to get cut. Yet if I did, I don't think I would feel it. It's not my fault, but I feel as if this is my penance. I reach for a large jagged piece, reach for a small piece that is too large for the vacuum. Betrayed, it's not my house anymore, it's theirs. The walls are now made of balsa wood. The walls will crumble with the wind. Every noise an invasion. Every creak a call to violence. The shards never end, I feel a small prick on the bottom of my foot, one that I will feel for hours, a day or more afterwards.
Safe is no longer in my vocabulary.
