They do not understand that I can never be like I was. A funny, happy, joyful person full of energy and light, well, that light died as soon as the first shard of glass hit the carpet. The light became no more.
Days become hours. Hours become minutes. I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. As I sit in my hospital bed I feel everything. I hear everything. The doctor scribbles away. The pen squeaking on paper, shoes wrestling in the corridor, next-door neighbor going through chronic pain while the nurses try to quiet him down, my mum crying, my sister oozing with curiosity. I knew my life has changed filled with uncertainty. I knew I had to open a new chapter in my life. People keep asking me what happened. I honestly do not remember the events in chronological order. I know one thing for certain … days become months, changing digitally into years.
My life has become shattering images on the edges of the discarded mirror.
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