Fresh Girls & Other Stories by Evelyn Lau

Author:Evelyn Lau [Lau, Evelyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, C429, Kat, Extratorrents, Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9781443406659
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2011-02-15T05:00:00+00:00

GLASS

She has put her fist through the window of her apartment. As she pulls her arm back, along with half the window, the shards slice across her wrist and the palm of her hand, simple as a knife slicing through uncooked white chicken meat. The blood begins to fill the gash to the brim, spilling over, as she looks down at her hand with detachment. The sound of glass falling fills her ears with wind chimes, the sound of glass spinning in the blue night. Ballerinas of glass cling to her wrist; she plucks them out, lets them fall to the floor.

She walks to the bathroom and holds the cut hand under the tap, filling the sink with diluted blood. She smiles to herself — she always smiles when she feels broken and ground up, with nothing left except a diamond in her chest. A diamond that nobody can pluck out and possess. A diamond beautiful like herself. She knows she is beautiful, because the sure, sharp mirror tells her so.

I see someone in the mirror, though, who is not beautiful, and that is why she hates me. I am the part of her she wants to kill. She has tried before, but what she doesn’t know is that if it wasn’t for me she would have died long ago. I won’t let her die; even if she doesn’t like me, I won’t. Maybe that is why she hates me so much. I’m the one who holds her together, and how can I help it if I see bloodshot eyes and the pores of her skin when she bends over the mirror?

The blood mingles in the water in the sink, in sluggish streaks. The water becomes the color of roses. She can hear the glass falling in her apartment; her attention has always been held by bright and flashing things, and she is awed at having created the scattering glass with its private, special orchestra. She loves anything prismatic, fake or real. Chandelier droplets. Diamonds. Treasure buried in white lines… . She wraps her hand in a towel, watching the blue material become tie-dyed with splotches of red. She walks back to the living room and sees the window, an open mouth in the night, dripping glass.

I wish she would pick up the phone and call someone. I want to help her, but she will do whatever she wants to, as she always has. She needs stitches, but although the cut — so clean and deep — was painless, she is terrified of blind needles probing the depth of the wound. That she is never afraid of anything unusual, but will flee from the ordinary, is a remarkable contradiction. She is all contradictions, her need and her dependency warmly sloshing inside her, and on the surface the frozen lake for others to skate on. I know all this. I don’t know why she can’t hear my voice. I’m the only one who can love her unconditionally, but she persists in looking outwards.

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