Ichor Of Mankind

• Jasmine Peters, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2022

The phone splinters as the hammer kisses the ground, glass pulsating through my veins. I turn to face the battered vintage camera, almost certain I can see them in the lens. I snatch it off the shelf, a jarring insult as it devastates the rubbish in the ground. I crumble against the wall, the urge to just snap my ribs and grab my spinal cord taunting me, luring me, what if I just? Picking up the hammer, my heart longs for the feeling of the tainted air to swirl around it. A hammer won't be enough. My ribs would not suffice to what I wish to happen. Lying down alongside the piles of glass and plastic soothe the aching thought that they are out there, and that they are watching me. They hide in the splits of the walls. They laugh. Heading to the bathroom, It stares through me as I step into the shower. Cold water eats away at the cuts the glass left. I grab the only mirror spared, the face looking back at me, not my own, but a distorted young girls face stuck in a terrified look. The whispering echoes around me, louder and louder. Curling up in a ball, wrapped in towels would prove to be the only escape. I wake to the deafening sound of bird call, the searing light blessing my eyes.