There is a mess on the floor. I claim that I did not make it.
I did not make the mess on the floor. That is what I tell mother. When she reports to dad my dishonesty, I make violent claims once again, re-telling the story of how there were always crushed pieces of glass on the floor in the first place. My brother protests that he;d seen me drop the glass with my own two hands, and even my pet dog blinks fiercely in the face of my web of lies–I know you did it! I know you made the mess!
I didn’t make the mess, I say again. More glass shatters on the floor. Everyone claims that I am the one who flung the glass to fragments, and everyone won’t listen to me.
I decide that it is okay if no-one listens to me–no one ever did, anyway–and I just pick up each piece of glass and bring the shards back to my room. The pieces dig into my flesh uncomfortably as I sit on my bed, holding the various fragments to my chest. My wrists start to feel incredibly itchy, and my elbows start to ache.
I feel warmth trickle down my arms.
Mom opens the door to my room, and leaves screaming about the bloody mess that’s left of me.
I tell her, I tell my dad, my brother, my dog, that I did not make the mess.
It’s simple. I did not make the mess. Maybe my sadness catalysed it, maybe my willingness to clear the mess from the kitchen floor, maybe the way I transported the glass pieces from one place to another, maybe that made the mess.
But I did not make the mess.
I am the mess.
Written in response to The Daily Post prompt