Tangible
It started before I could remember. Honestly, it just seems like it had always been that way. The scariest
thing was opening my eyes, because then I had to face the truth of what I saw. If I opened my eyes then I
couldn’t avoid seeing it, all the things that scared me. The things I couldn’t understand, no matter how many
times I thought about it.
It didn’t matter which way I turned, I couldn’t escape seeing it. What made it scarier is how beautiful it
all looked—because then I just wanted to stare. The smooth cool looking surfaces, that refracted the light in
a hundred shinning rays, that looked like glittering particles, as beautiful as the tears of stars. I could stare at
it till I no longer even remembered how long I had been, and I can’t begin to even fathom how many times
that might of happened or how long in between I’ve probably sat that way, simple staring at each individual
shimmering ray as it gracefully colors the next cool surface before making its way to the next.
The first time I touched it, it felt like my bones themselves were disintegrating. I cowered back and hit the
other side, then I screamed—but not a single sound fell from my agape lips. At that moment I’m not even
sure what scared me more, my voice that didn’t obey me or the isolation that began to sink into my very
molecules.
My prison are these scary beautiful surfaces that I’ve somehow been trapped within, encased from all
sides with only enough room to remain sprawled out and turn—though I’m almost never sprawled out. My
knees have been pressed to my chest in a permanent curl to the point I can barely recall how to move them.
But if I move I’d end up looking at my body, which scares me more than even this cruelly beautiful prison it
almost feels like I was born in, or just came into being in.
It’s hard to see through the glass, even when it’s not frosted from the everlasting chill that the glass
contains itself, any images from through the glass is distorted, refracted then lost in the rays that color each
part of my prison, teasing my mind with trying to figure out what the original image was. I gave up trying to
look through the glass a long time ago because if I did I’d have to touch the glass, something I just can’t do.
I’ve even forgotten how long I’ve kept my eyes closed, or how long I’ve even been conscious. Even more
then looking at my prison, I cannot stand staring at my body. I’m almost overjoyed at times when I think
about this prison that shields me from whatever’s on the other side of the glass because my body would shock
who ever saw it. Who could accept a paper body, so sickly fragile, discolored, and ruined such as the body I
seem to have been given.
When I still had my eyes open, I watched those beings shuffle by, never once even glancing in the
direction of my prison, probably to avoid the sight that is myself inside the glass. Ignorance, complete
unacknowledgement of my existence—I remember thinking in slow heavy words how much better it
probably is for everything else outside the glass to think that way. That was the first time I cried, even the
sounds of the freezing liquid spilling down my body was mute to the existence of everything else, as was my
very breath.
…
That’s why when it happened, I thought the very laws of existence themselves had somehow gone insane.
A sound I had never heard before rang and multiplied across each surface into a symphony destroying the
silence that had existed as long as I had.
If words existed to describe what I felt, I had never learned them in the time span that has been my life.
The first time I’d opened my eyes in what felt like an eternity, I saw his face, clearly through the glass. For a
small moment, I wondered why his face isn’t being refracted, but before I can fully process the thought, he
does something I’ve never seen anyone do towards me—something I’d only dreamed about seeing.
He smiled at me…
I couldn’t grasp my surroundings as an uncountable amount of questions suddenly overflowed into my
mind and then were over taken by the next wave of questions—things I never thought I’d ask. The sound
came again shocking me back into realty as he tapped against the glass. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear a
sound. How do I tell him?
I tried to gesture I couldn’t hear, but his head only cocked in confusion; we sat still both contemplating,
easy to see his mind trying to find a solution as his expression wandered, his form shifting in thought. He
smiled suddenly again, leaning close to the glass—then the glass fogged up.
He’d breathed against it, then gently, dragged his finger in carefully written words, thinking out how to
wright each letter backwards for me to understand. What’s your name?
…
I couldn’t think of what to answer, did I have a name?
He tapped the glass again, a sad smile gracing his lips now, You don’t know do you? Slowly dipping
my head in a low nod, he tapped once again a moment later, That’s ok, you’ll find one!
...That was when things slowly started to shift into motion…
Why he never just got bored, or found something else to do, I can’t answer—but there wasn’t a day he
didn’t come for some amount of time to talk with me. In small simple lines, we wrote our thoughts back and
forth, like secret messages that the rest of existence couldn’t hear, but we knew.
I can’t recall when we started, but we began to draw together, adding and changing each other’s careful
doodles, smiling brightly with each unspoken joke we both understood. I laughed out with joy, though no one
could hear that sound.
…
At times he wasn’t his usual calm and happy self, at times he wouldn’t write very much to me, at other
times he even seemed angry—his writing slurring and changing with his emotions as he shared his story
with me. I sat, nodding, gesturing, and carefully replying as he slowly let me see his deepest emotions and
thoughts. Smiling gently to my responses, his moods would gracefully shift back to his usual self, sometimes
it seemed even more joyful then before.
Each time, I felt the chill in my prison slowly ebbing away, when he had to go though, it would slowly
creep back into what seemed my very skin. I tried to get an understanding of how long he was typically here
with me, each time I got closer and closer to always right. I treasured that time, and tried to make each
moment a permanent part of my memories.
He tapped on the glass, Why are you making that face? I turned away; not realizing I’d began to
grimace as the time drew close to his leaving. Composing my face, I gently turned back and replied. No
reason.
He stared at me, his gaze more intense then I’d seen it yet—I almost thought the glass would melt. After
what felt a very long breath, he nodded, waved, and left as he always did. The cold rushed back in heavier
than it had before.
…
Why did you do that? I wrote slowly, not looking towards him. What do you mean? I pointed
at his drawing. Is something wrong with it? I bit my lip. Staring at his drawing, a small doodle of
himself, whose hand he’d linked with the hand of my doodle self.
I shook my head, drawing a line between the two, cutting between their hands—A wall. Looking to him,
he gently shook his head looking down. Shakily dragging my finger again, I slowly entrapped the doodle me
inside a shapeless cage.
He stood up, and walked away.
…
For the first time since he started coming, I cried again—tears that made no sound, proof they might as
well not exist. I slowly curled back up, gripping my knees to my body with my shaking hands, squeezing my
eyes shut crying out a sound that was never birthed into life. After what seemed a long long heartbeat, an
implausible thought began to form.
It was a selfish thought. The most selfish thought anyone in the world could have ever manifested in the
depths of their heart. At least, that’s what I believed—with the utmost entirety of my existence. I almost
laughed at the very absurdity. I thought about it more, trying to envision it. Trying to feel each sensation of it,
trying to will it into being—then quickly pushed it back into my deepest depths.
Why?
Why had it suddenly scared me?
…
I felt myself waiting—each breath dragged on for what felt a seamless amount of space. Each time, I
could feel it bubbling up from deep inside. The thought he won’t come back. What I’d do then. I forced it
back down, squeezing my eyes as hard as I could. I couldn’t allow myself to panic, there’s no telling what
would happen if I did. I might accidently push myself into one of the surfaces. I’d disintegrate.
…Why though hadn’t the glass hurt when I drew with him? Why…hadn’t I thought of that till now? Did it
hurt…I can’t recall. I think, my fingers were numb, but there was no pain—only…I can’t think of the name. It
was a feeling I wasn’t used to. It wasn’t painful or isolating—it wasn’t cold either. Was it warm? Is that what
you call it? I really haven’t the slightest idea. But, what’s this feeling? Why can’t I place it?
The sounds came. I jumped and there he was, staring at me through the glass, his eyes scowled slightly.
Why are you like that?
Slowly I shifted to the glass, Like what? His scowl deepened. I lost count of my
thoughts as he sat there, staring. After a moment he hung his head. Slowly he dragged his finger along the
glass, more careful then normal—pausing after each word. They sounded so much heavier.
I really wish you could just talk to me like you trusted me.
I curled up, before I even knew I was doing it, my knees tightly engraving into my chest. Stifling a
laugh—I never thought there’d be a time I was happy he couldn’t hear me. The other outrageous wish was
for the glass to frost back up—why was it never frosted when he was here?
The sound rang out, quickly growing rapid. I refused ever particle in my body from moving me to look
up—trying irrationally to burry my face into my knees. I jumped.
My prison was shaking—something that had never happened once in the remembrance of my existence.
It shook again, harder. Frantically searching each surface, I focused on his hands as they crashed down
against the glass in tight fists. I screamed—if that sound had ever been birthed into being, it might have
been loud enough to dissolve the atoms that make my prison.
Shaking my hands rapidly, pressing them against the glass between us, shouting in useless speed. He was
panting, his fists darkened and skinned in places. His head shook, dropping low; he curled on the other side
of the glass. I nearly pressed up to the glass, but remembered who I am. Gripping my trembling arms—I
could do nothing else.
Suddenly he lunged up, pressing to the glass, his lips uselessly trying to force words out I couldn’t hear.
His glare then scared me for a moment, his hands hastily dragging out large letters, Why?!
Don’t do that. He shook his head, his hands slamming on the glass again. I flinched. Why! My
hands shook, Don’t break the glass.
…If the glass breaks, I’ll be ripped to pieces.
He stared at me, his hands forming tighter
fists then before. His expression narrowed in a way I never could have imagined possible. How do you
know?
…
What a funny question. I almost even laughed; I mean…what else could happen? Nothing else made
sense, how could any other result be even plausible? This prison, this structure of thin glass, that was only
sustained by its own form—the moment it shatters I’d shatter with it.
I felt it then, the isolation in my skin—when had it fused with my bones? …Did my bones even exist
anymore? I curled my fingers into a fist, willing them to fold and stretch. Sharply looking away from my
disturbing form. He was gone…How long ago had he left? I sprawled listlessly, slowly absorbing the words
he’d left—already fading from the glass. I won’t let that be possible.
…
I don’t think I can recall my body ever shaking so violently—even more so than the moments he
pounding on my prison. Why—why was it so difficult to tear my eyes from him? The words he kept writing,
going from surface to surface barely even pausing, why did I keep reading his fairy tales?
What is your Name?
Is there a name you want?
What is it?
How old are you?
When’s your birthday?
What kind of home do you wanna live in?
Where are the places you wanna see?
What do you wanna do when you get older?
What food do you like?
What animals do you wanna get to know? What future do you want to have?
What weather do you like?
What do you want?
What music do you like?
Who are you?
Why are you in there?
Do you even like it in there?
Why not leave? Why do you stay?
Answer me! Who are you?
Well?
What flowers do you like?
Do you like sweets?
What’s your favorite color?
Do you know?
Why aren’t I freezing? Even if I counted for the rest of my life, I could never accurately even get close to
how much of my liquefied heart had spilled down my cheeks—amassing in bundles of translucent sparkles.
How long had they even been spilling? I couldn’t move anymore without being drenched by them, they’d
already populated so much of my prison—the surfaces themselves began to refract and multiply across
those glittering sparkles.
His lips moved soundlessly. I gestured helplessly—he knows I can’t hear him. Why? His scowl from
before couldn’t compare to know. What do you want?
I stared. He stared back, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t move, not even blinked. I had to remember how
to, but slowly I shifted towards him—the coolness that the sparkling tears should of endowed on my flesh,
was somehow not cool at all. I don’tYes you do!
What do you want?
Why won’t my body listen?
Well!?
How can he make me shake this much?
Don’t ignore me!
Flinching, I slowly met his gaze again. I could feel it bubbling up—that selfish thought. I felt my lips
moving, slowly mouthing soundless words—words I never imagines I’d ever breathe life into. Smiling from
the absurdity of that wish, that childish fairytale dream, and the isolation it bore into my very atoms.
The sound came.
I do too!
I couldn’t stop him then, as he slammed what seemed every appendage of his very being against the
frightening glass. Not stopping at the scrapes, nor the gashes, not taking any notice of the blood that colored
and drew lines down his limbs. His eyes fierce, alight in some strange phenomena I didn’t know possible of
man. I felt my back press to the glass, when had I moved?
But I had to, the glass was cracking. What do I do? The cracks deepened, branching off in deep limbs
that ran their course in frantic uneven gashes, ripping at the very particles of the glass. It didn’t pause, each
limb breaking into more, shattering every minute trace. I couldn’t follow it anymore, the cracks where still
being refracted a thousand times, overlapping each other’s surface in uncountable tangles—no longer
discernible. Disintegration, could glass even do that naturally?
Suddenly there was so much force on my limbs, collapsing in a huddled ball. What is this feeling? This
weight I’ve never felt on my body, this feeling of what’s beneath me. My body suddenly jumped at an even
more miraculous feeling—arms wrapping around my form, pulling me against his own. He cradled my
body as it was. Is this what warmth really is? He smiled, his arms tightening around me, I did it back.
A sound birthed from his lips, the most beautiful sound, my first sound. “What name should I call you?”