Jack -Short Stories

The Second Moment: That Damn Glass

My mother was an odd sort of woman. She never had any girlfriends to converse or go out for drinks with and so she found the next best thing, me. She never allowed me to play with the other children in the neighborhood. I was told that they were all ruffians that frequently got into trouble with the law. My mother did whatever she could to keep from experiencing life the way a young boy was supposed to. Instead of going out of doors and running through the woods looking for small creatures to examine, I was sitting in the living room holding a ball of yarn for my mother as she knitted. She was so horrible at knitting. From where I sat, I could always hear the kids yelling to one another out front. I badly wanted to join them.

Naturally, my mother gave me chores around the house. I would scrub the floors, clean windows and wash the dishes. Things you would expect your mother to do, not a ten year old boy. She always reminded me that these chores would instill in me good habits and values. While I was cleaning my mother would sit in the living room with a large crystal glass in her hand. I could never figure out what she was drinking but I remember the nauseating smell of her breath when she was finished consuming it. Only when I was much, much older did I come to realize that she was drinking alcohol.

Washing dishes was such a tedious task for me. I didn't like sticking my hands into the dirty water to scrub the little bits of food from the plates and pans, never mind the revolting chunks of mush that were always in the sink stopper after the dishes were complete and the water had drained from the basin.

There was this particular glass of my father's that I absolutely did not like to clean. I remember that the shape of it made it difficult to wash and although my hands were small, I could never properly wash the inside of it. I would contort my hand and try to get the best angle to shove the wash rag into it.

My father was walking around the kitchen looking for something and I could hear him mumbling curse words under his breath as he searched. I wasn't paying too much attention as he stood next to me rummaging around in one of the kitchen drawers. All my focus was on that glass and how close I was to finally reaching my goal. With one last twist of my hand the wash rag was in and I let out a victory chuckle. However the momentum I had been using was still running through my hands and arms and that, along with the soap that covered the glass, caused them to slip. The glass smacked against the edge of the sink and shattered. Both my hands splashed into the dirty water and it spilled onto the floor and the counter. The front of my shirt and trousers were soaked. "What the hell are you doing Jack?" The hiss of my father's voice caused the color to drain from my face and my head whipped up to look at him. His shirt was wet and covered in soap. Papers he had placed on the counter were now ruined and what information that was scrawled on them was quickly vanishing in the water. My eyes were wide as I looked over my father's disheveled appearance and under any normal circumstances one would have laughed but I dared not to.

I looked back at my hands, the only thing remaining of the glass was the rim which was still intact and fastened tightly around my wrist. My father pulled his shirt away from his body and squeezed the fabric in his hands, the water dripped to the floor. "I-I was only trying to clean your glass," I finally spoke after a moment's pause. My father's eyes went to the shards of glass that littered the counter and the ring that was like a bracelet on my arm.

"You broke it...?" the inquiry came out more like a statement. The expression on my father's face was so heart wrenching and I had no clue as to why he cared so much that I had broken this glass of his. He took hold of my arm and wrist and started to yank the circle from my hand. Its jagged edge began to cut into my skin causing immediate pain and I started to bleed. "Father please, that hurts. Let me do it. Please?" I begged him but he continued to pull at the glass. I did my best to not cry out as my flesh was torn and as a distraction, I looked around for my mother. I could see her sitting in the darkened living room with her back to us acting as if she was oblivious to what my father was doing to me.

My attention was turned back to father, his fingers were red from the death grip he had on the shard of glass. With one last yank, the ring of glass was free. Blood was flowing freely from my wrist and it dripped down into the sink turning the water pink. I grimaced in pain as I flexed my fingers; the small motion caused a burning ache to run up my arm. "I cannot believe you were stupid enough to break it..." my father whispered as he gathered what little shards of glass he could find into the wash rag I had been using and then retreated to his office with the wet rag held close to his body as if he were cradling a baby.

I looked at the sink of pink water and then to my wrist, not knowing what I supposed to clean first. My mother still had not moved from her spot. With much hesitation, I reached into the water with my uninjured hand, pulled the stopper from the drain and then took out a clean wash rag from under the sink for the mess of water that was on the counter.

My father's papers had completely disintegrated by this point and the only thing that remained were little bits of white that littered the counter. I did my best to clean up after myself and when I was finished I took a few sheets of paper towel from the roll on the counter, wrapped my wrist and headed for the hallway bathroom, being careful not to drip blood on the carpet.

I could not believe the mess my father had made of my wrist and I must admit that it was a horrific sight to behold. Chunks of flesh were taken from it and I should have gone to the hospital but who would have taken me? I should have been surprised when neither of my parents acknowledged my injury, but I wasn't. Not one word was spoken about the incident. My mother finally emerged from the living room to refill her glass as I could hear her feet shuffling along the tiled floor of the kitchen. "Jack?" I could hear her call to me, "you made a terrible mess in here and I expect you to clean it up better when you are through playing in there." The woman had the audacity to assume I was doing childish things in the bathroom and I wasn't cleaning up this large wound my father had just given me. "Yes Mother," I replied.