01 Feb I Keep Finding Pieces of Glass in My House
I had been cleaning up my house when I had noticed the first pieces glinting up from the carpet in the dulling sunlight. Curious, I hunched down over it, picking it up between my forefinger and my thumb.
There were two or three tiny fragments of bottle-green glass, about a few inches in length.
It was odd in that I couldn’t remember breaking anything in the last few days. I wondered how I had gone this long without stepping on it. Shuddering at the thought, I brushed it up onto a piece of paper, all too conscious of the piercing edges and threw it out.
I put the whole incident down to my own carelessness- I’d broken something yesterday and forgotten about it. That should have been the end of it.
Until the very next day, where I had returned home from work to find freshly broken glass scattered on the edge of my bedroom dresser, where I knew nothing had fallen from. It continued to show up in the strangest places- in the fridge, outside my bedroom door, under my pillow when I woke up in the morning. There was no place in the house where it hadn’t appeared.
I had lived alone for the past five years, so I knew it couldn’t be anyone else. Yet the glass continued to appear each day without fail. I considered the possibility of sleepwalking but discarded that thought as soon as it had appeared in my head.
I’d turned to the only thing that would provide me with some explanation for it all- the internet. Surprisingly, I found more than a few answers for it.
After wading through the usual unrelated search results, I’d stumbled across some paranormal-themed message boards where a few users had shared their own similar experiences. As I scrolled down their words, it was as if I had written it myself- shards of glass appearing overnight in strange places with no explanation. I’d always considered myself a sceptic of all those things, but the events of the past few days were making me reconsider that previous outlook.
A few believed their occurrences to be poltergeist related, writing about how objects had just exploded without any reasonable explanation, scattering glass everywhere. Some believed it to be a good omen, that it was a sign from a spirit, usually a relative, from the afterlife.
I didn’t have any family- well, none that I wanted to remember- but there was something about the second theory that stuck with me. It was just nice thinking that someone might be looking out for me, even if they didn’t exist in this world.
I found myself looking forward to finding the glass with my former frustration with it forgotten. When I picked it up now, I did it with a smile, a silent form of thanks to whatever unseen entity might have deposited it there. The thought was there might be someone there at home was an injection of motivation in my life.
One night, I had woken to a throbbing pain in my skull, like someone had driven a jackhammer directly into my eye socket. I had hauled myself out of bed, having to grip the enclosing walls for support as agony flooded through my body, the worst conscious sensation that I had ever experienced in my life. By some miracle, I had made it to the bathroom still conscious and pawed around it the darkness until I found a light switch.
Jammed in my lower cornea, just inches away from my pupil, was a piece of glass, about five inches in length, the jagged tip jutting up in the air.
I froze, staring at my own terrified reflection, the only other presence that I could see in the room. I watched unable to stop as my trembling fingers lifted to the edge of the shard and enclosed over it.
The agony that ensued forced my eyelid to snap shut, the transparent edge of the glass piece twisting through the skin. I gripped the edge of the skin for support, my rapid breaths clouding up the reflective surface of the mirror.
Returning two fingers to it, I started to pull again, this time using the thumb and ring finger of my opposite hand to hold both my eyelids open. Tears streamed down from the corner of my eye. I tugged it at, struggling to retain focus because of my blurring vision. I didn’t care about the pain anymore. I just wanted it out.
With a low squelch, it came out, flecking red droplets on my fingers and the previously pristine white of the sink. I doubled over, a hand pressed to my eye, sobbing in a pained relief.
As much as it hurt, it was over now.
Or so I thought.
A nauseous rush of fear swirled in my stomach as I felt something pointed press against my fingers, bringing new pain to my eye. I lifted my hand in time to see a new sliver push through the shuddering white, tinted red with blood.
The glass was somehow inside of me.
An animal terror came over me and I tore at it, screams mixing with sobs as my nails embedded into my soft sclera. No matter how many times I pulled at it, a new piece would emerge out of it in its place. I don’t know how long it went out for, but the floor tiles were saturated were soon saturated with my own blood, where dozens of pieces of glass floated up in.
When I looked back to my reflection, I saw a gaping tear where my left eye had been, trailing down to my cheekbone which spurted what seemed like an endless stream of red down my face, red rolling off the crevice of my chin and down onto the floor.
I only stopped when I heard the pounding at my front door, followed by concerned voices. I stumbled out of the bathroom, smearing blood along the walls. My body seemed to collide with every solid surface around me, the vision on my left side almost completely black.
The door burst open and a group of police officers filed in, probably called by my neighbours in all the commotion I’d been making. Their steely expressions morphed into expressions of horror as they saw me. One bent over to retch into his hand.
I passed out to the sight of them looking down at me, eyes wide and mouths open.
I’m writing this now from hospital. My left eye is still dark, swaddled with tightly bandaged gauze. The doctors won’t let me touch it. They’ve quizzed me over again about it all, but in the end, I still have no answers.
They’ve thrown around certain words in hushed tones, like ‘ocular laceration’ and ‘uveal prolapse’. Even though I don’t know what they mean, the pit of dread in my stomach expands whenever I hear them. I know I’m not going to be able to see out of that eye for a very long time- if ever.
But they can’t help me. This morning, as I woke up, I saw something shimmer out on the floor beside my hospital bed, sharp and obvious. It’s the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing at night. I can’t escape it. Whatever this is, I don’t think it’s over.
I can feel something in the back of my throat.