Cage Of Glass

Chapter 3- Frayed Threads

Brielle awoke to the shrill buzz of her phone, dragging her out of a restless sleep. She blinked against the morning light filtering through the blinds, her head throbbing from last night's wine. 

The empty bottle lay on the coffee table, its stained label peeling at the edges—a testament to another night wasted.

The buzzing continued, relentless. Groaning, Brielle groped for her phone beneath a tangle of blankets and cushions. When she saw the caller ID, her stomach sank—Camille.

She swiped to answer, clearing her throat. "Hey."

"You were supposed to call me last night," Camille's voice scolded, though there was warmth beneath her concern. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry." Brielle pinched the bridge of her nose. "Got caught up in something."

"Caught up in another bottle of Merlot?" Camille asked, knowing the answer.

Brielle exhaled sharply through her nose, unwilling to lie but too ashamed to admit the truth. "Maybe."

A soft sigh crackled through the receiver. "Bri, you can't keep doing this. Have you touched any marble recently? A sketch? Anything?"

Brielle pressed her palm to her temple, feeling the familiar sting of guilt. Not this again. But Camille was one of the few people still in her corner—one of the few who hadn't given up on her.

"I'll get back to it soon," Brielle mumbled, the words tasting hollow even to her.

A pause followed, weighted and careful. Camille knew better than to push too hard, but the concern was evident in her voice. "Listen... I didn't want to say this, but did you hear back from the gallery about the residency?"

The question made Brielle's stomach churn. She sat up, rubbing her gritty eyes. "No. Not yet."

"You should call them," Camille urged. "It's too good of an opportunity to let slip. If you get in..."

"If." That word hung heavy in the air, sharper than Brielle liked. She swallowed against the knot forming in her throat. "Yeah, I know. I will."

They talked for a few more minutes, though Brielle's responses became increasingly clipped. When she finally ended the call, the silence in the room seemed to expand, wrapping around her like a vice. She tossed the phone onto the coffee table, her chest tightening.

She knew Camille was right—she needed the residency, needed the breakthrough it promised. But even the thought of picking up her tools felt overwhelming.

Brielle wandered into her studio, the smallest room in the apartment, cluttered with abandoned projects and gathering dust. The scent of stale stone dust lingered in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of old tools. 

She stared at the block of marble in the corner, its smooth white surface untouched. It had been sitting there for months, waiting. Mocking her.

She ran her fingers along the cool surface, trying to feel some spark—some hint of the passion that used to come so easily. But nothing came.

In the past, art had been her salvation, the one thing that made sense in a chaotic world. Now it felt like a punishment. 

Every time she picked up her tools, it was as if she could hear a voice in the back of her mind whispering, You've lost it. You're not good enough. You never were.

The pressure to succeed was suffocating. Her savings were nearly gone, and commissions were drying up. If she didn't land the gallery residency, she'd have to take a "real" job—something mind-numbing and soul-draining just to make rent. 

The thought of it made her skin crawl.

Brielle sat at her workbench and sharpened her chisels, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone briefly soothing her frayed nerves. She spread out her sketchbooks, flipping through pages filled with ideas she hadn't finished. Maybe couldn't finish.

Just one hour, she told herself. One hour of focus. You can do this.

But as she sat staring at the untouched marble, her mind grew loud with doubts. What if she couldn't create anything worthwhile? What if all her talent had been spent years ago, leaving nothing but this hollow version of herself behind?

Minutes passed. Then an hour. And still, she sat there, paralyzed.

Her phone buzzed on the table beside her—a reminder of her overdue rent. She ignored it, heart pounding. The financial pressure gnawed at her constantly, adding another layer to the weight she carried.

She couldn't afford to keep waiting for inspiration. She needed to sculpt something. Anything. But no matter how hard she tried, the ideas refused to come.

Her frustration boiled over. With a growl of anger, Brielle stood and shoved the tools aside, sending them clattering to the floor. She pressed her hands to her face, her fingers cold against her flushed skin.

What is wrong with me?

By late afternoon, Brielle gave up on the studio entirely and retreated to the living room. She curled up on the couch with her knees drawn to her chest, scrolling mindlessly through social media. 

It was a masochistic ritual—watching other artists post their work, their successes, their announcements of gallery shows and sold-out commissions.

Every post felt like a slap.

A sculpture she saw by one of her peers—a sleek, abstract figure in bronze—drew a bitter laugh from her throat. She had gone to art school with that artist. They used to be close. Now he was successful, his work displayed in galleries she could only dream of.

Brielle tossed her phone onto the cushion beside her, her chest heavy with resentment and envy. She hated feeling like this—like someone else's success was a personal failure. But that's what it felt like.

Her parents' voices echoed in her mind, ghosts from the past. Maybe it's time to try something more practical, Brielle. You need stability. You need a real job.

She shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. Giving up wasn't an option. Not yet.

But the walls were closing in on her.

Her financial situation was growing more desperate by the day. Soon, she wouldn't just be avoiding rent reminders—she'd be facing eviction. 

The commissions weren't coming fast enough, and her dwindling savings wouldn't last another month.

And then there was the emotional toll—an ache of isolation that gnawed at her constantly. She had lost touch with most of her friends, her social life slowly withering under the weight of her self-imposed exile.

The loneliness was a heavy, unspoken thing. It filled the silence of her apartment, trailing her from room to room like a shadow.

She wrapped herself tighter in the blanket, as if that might keep the world—and her failures—at bay for just a little longer.

But deep down, she knew the truth: If she didn't make something happen soon, it would all fall apart.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room. Brielle stared at the empty space on her wall, imagining the sculptures that might have filled it—pieces that could have been displayed in galleries or sold to collectors.

But they remained figments of her imagination, trapped behind the wall of fear she couldn't seem to break through.

She needed a win. Just one win.

Tomorrow, she told herself, though the word tasted bitter in her mouth. Tomorrow, I'll start again. Tomorrow will be different.

But as she lay in the growing darkness, with the weight of failure pressing against her chest, Brielle wasn't sure if she even believed that anymore.