The Glass

She stood there staring at me from the other side of the glass.  Her image was broken into rectangle segments, framed by the latticework.  She held one hand pressed against the window next to her face, as if she were whispering a secret to her own reflection.  

Magenta lips worked “oh’s” and tears rolled down her cheeks as silent screams that never broke through the glass encased her.  She raised a fist and let it fall against the glass and the frustration on her breath clouded the pane as she leaned her forehead on the window and wailed.  

I stood at a loss, not quite sure what to do.  She was in the wrong place.  This was no museum, no asylum.  We were standing in the middle of a Starbucks where life went bustling by.  I don’t think anyone else saw the girl in the glass box, her terror on display for a world who didn’t even notice.

She kept on murmuring words that I couldn’t make out, but then she looked me directly in the eyes and poignantly commanded me.  “Help,” she mouthed.  I tried to look away, but her eyes pierced down into my soul.  There was something familiar about her, something that I recognized but couldn’t put my finger on. 

I looked around for a rock or a hammer or piece of metal that would be strong enough to break the glass.  Out of desperation I threw a paper coffee cup at the glass.  I didn’t believe my eyes when it flew directly through and landed at the floor by the girl’s feet. 

I hesitated, unsure whether I should run away or step closer to investigate.  Her gaze still held mine and it pulled me closer like an invisible force.  I stood very close and watched her suffer.  I saw her wrists were red and bruised, as if she had clawed at her arms to remove some invisible bonds.  A thin line of blood caked her lips, evidence of a chapped voice that resonated back at her off of the glass.  

As I watched, her eyes slowly melted away, drowned by her tears like an ice cube under a stream of water.  Her soul still stared at me from empty eye sockets and I could feel the chill from inside her seep through the cracks in the windowpane. 

I felt sick.  I felt empathy and compassion.  I wondered what it was that kept her trapped there.  There was a part of me that wanted to reach through the glass and touch her, but another part wanted to order my double Americano and walk blindly past her like the rest of the world. 

I turned my back on the girl and walked away.  One foot in front of the other, I approached the counter.  I saw a little girl in a hot pink t-shirt waving and grinning broadly at the glass pane I had just deserted.  I breathed a sigh of relief, glad I wasn’t the only one who could see the girl trapped there. 

I took my coffee and stepped behind the little girl and towards the exit.  I turned to the glass for a last glimpse at the tragedy.  I clenched my cup so hard in my hand that I spilled coffee all over my shirt.  The little girl stood waving at her own reflection in a renovated windowpane.