There is something therapeutic about the breaking of glass. Not just the action of it, but the sound of it. The tinkling of glass raining down on a tile floor sounds like a gentle, cleansing rain.
The baseball entered the kitchen with barely enough speed to make it through the window. Six year-olds can’t put enough chutzpah behind a baseball to make a statement. Not that the intent isn’t there, it’s just that a six year-old’s anger makes promises their arm can’t keep.
Phillip had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to destroy the home his grandfather lived in. Fortunately, he was too young to have discovered the inflammatory properties of gasoline. At only six, he had already suffered three years of sexual abuse, without any sense of understanding about what was happening to him. His nightmares centered around an old man with burning eyes that chased him through the hallways, always waking just before the bony hands clasped him while he crouched in a corner. Had Phillip known, or rather understood, what his life had become after his parents were killed in the car accident three years ago, he would have become an avenging angel, set to slowly destroy the man responsible for his descent into Hell.
Instead, his six year old mind could only conceive of heaving a baseball through a glass window, for which he was sure to be punished. But for the moment, the sound of the glass slivers bouncing on the tile floor was cathartic, and all was right with the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment