The Glass Box

Another story from another time and place…

The square box stands majestically in its corner with its captive held securely inside. Walls of delicate glass, yet impenetrable to all things but sight. Her yells and pleas for help heard by no one. Her small fists banging against the smooth surface leaving no more than little patches of mist from the heat of her body, soon evaporated and dissipated into oblivion without a trace.

Such perfection. Such purity. The light from the sun catches the shiny glass and sends flickers of brightness dancing across its interior, bathing the girl in soft golden flames.

She drops her eyes helplessly… her hands sliding down the cool clear surface in despairing resignation. Tired, aching, exhausted… how long has she been in here? How long has she been locked away in this maddening void? she lets her head fall against the thick glass, watching with teary eyes the world move about outside her make-shift prison.

Like a china doll in its dsplay case set high on a shelf… out of reach of curious careless hands. Perhaps even with a little label reading “do not touch” protruding at the base, warding off anyone who may think to look too closely.

Time passes and slowly she fades, feeling more and more like an imprint of something that used to be… once… a long time ago. Perhaps, remembering herself in the same dream-like state as one would when sitting, old of age and worn by life, reminiscing of times long since gone.

Yet the hunger remains un-sated and raw. The need still as ripe and savage as ever, eating her alive quietly from the inside out. The cruelty and anguish of witnessing all around her what she is denied tearing her apart. She curls up on the bottom of her see-through sound-proof cage and weeps, wanting to shut it all away and pretend she does not hear the call deep inside her. Forgotten and abandoned by a world that no longer has a place for her. A world that heartlessly keeps her alive but denies her life.

Her wings clipped… her tether tied in its own gordic knot inside her glass cage. Like a bug caught by a little boy, one leg or wing after the other torn off with ignorant brutality, as he watches in delight as it writhers helplessly… alive but rendered incapable of being what it must be to survive.

And always, always… on display… in that little glass box on the shelf, for everyone to see and for no one to touch.

The Glass Box

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