Through Glass(45)

Corn. Green beans. Beef stew.

My mom had barely used canned foods, preferring instead to cook fresh, but even with that I knew what kind of foods people canned. As long as whoever had left it was not some nut job that canned paperclips for fun, I was holding food in my hands.

I wrapped my hands around the can as my eyes went wide. I wasn’t starving anymore, not by any means, but I held real food in my hands. Real food.

Not sludge or molding porridge.

My eyes looked away automatically, darting through the mass of trash in front of me for a can opener.

I almost laughed right out. There was no way I was going to find a can opener here. However, I needed to get the can open.

I waded through the trash back towards the fire, looking for anything I could use to open the shiny silver can, though nothing popped out at me.

I bit my bottom lip, trying to figure it out before I turned on the spot, grabbing the long bed rail from where I had left it on the floor.

“It’s as good of a can opener as any I suppose.”

I let the can fall to the floor. It rolled a bit before it stopped against a shard of dry wall, the silver side glinting in the fire light.

“Tonight, we will eat like kings,” I whispered, raising the bar high above my head before one quick decent sent it right on top of the can, a loud smack resounding through the dilapidated room.

I jumped at the sound, half expecting the Ulama to come barreling through the door, but I knew better. They wouldn’t come near the light. The instruction manual had affirmed that, if I hadn’t known it already.

I pulled the bar back up into the air, my eyes narrowing at the large dent that had almost folded the can in half. One more time.

I lifted the bar again, sending it back into the can with all the strength I could muster. This time, the loud smack was replaced by the dull thud of liquid.

I let the bed rail clatter to the ground as I dropped to my knees, beef stew spilling over the dusty carpet. I stared at it, disbelieving that it was actually there. Food, real food. I didn’t care that it was two years old, that it was cold, that it was all over the gross flooring, I scooped it up with my hands, bringing it to my face as the smell of spices hit my nose. The smell was warm and comforting like home, like forgotten Thanksgivings and after school snacks.

I breathed it in and let the memories hit me before pressing my fingers to my open mouth, the taste rushing into my blood stream like the heavy hit of a drug. It rushed through me like fire, my nerves prickling in joy as the food hit my tongue; the flavor strong and desirable.

I couldn’t help it, I groaned. I groaned as I licked the heavy broth from my fingers, my hand scooping it up and pressing it into my mouth. I groaned as I gobbled it up, pushing more and more of the food into my mouth. I ate in a panic, my hand not able to move fast enough to get it into my mouth; to experience the next jolt of enjoyment that such simple food was giving me.

I pressed my hand against the carpet, hoping to sop up every last bit. My finger pressed against the indention of the can as I drizzled the last of the dregs into my open mouth as my tongue wagged in the air to rescue it.

I am sure I’d had better food before. I knew I had. Yet, right then, that one can of two-year-old beef stew was the best thing I had ever eaten. I wanted more. I groaned in appreciation as I dropped the can into my lap, savoring the last of the flavors that were trapped inside my mouth.

I turned toward the pile of trash to my side, my eyes scanning over everything once in a desperate need for more.

There had to be something in there.

I moved toward the pile, my hands moving through the garbage, moving forgotten and broken objects aside as I pushed them out of the way.

Papers, pictures of someone else’s family; useless things that only opened more questions than answers and certainly didn’t provide any food. I looked without really seeing them, my eyes unfocused in my search for silver; for anything that might hold food. My hands moved papers, clip boards, diamond rings, only to stop at the blur of red that streaked itself through the carpet below the remains of someone else’s life.

Food was forgotten as my fingers fluttered over the streaks of red. My mind screamed blood—danger—but I couldn’t stop the movement of my hand, the morbid curiosity that was creeping into me. The red was stiff and hard against the carpet fibers, the feeling almost familiar. The texture was a sharp reminder of evenings with Cohen and the feeling of the stains on his work shirts, the smell of acetone and latex, the gentle prickle of a brush.

Paint.

Cohen.

I pushed the papers out of the way, desperate to find more paint; to find where it was coming from. My fingers followed the lines of the red as more and more came into view.



The large, jagged letter stuck out from the dark carpet, the light of the fire igniting it and making it look like it was burning.

I stared at it for a moment, my stress running through me. Another message. Did I want to know?

I looked to all the others that lined the walls, the disjointed messages spelling out the guidelines that someone had lived by. Crazy or not, each one was a rule to them, something that had kept them alive; even if it had been for only a little while longer.

Yes, I wanted to know.

My hands began to move before I was aware of them, pushing away letters and broken pieces of dresser, lifting large chunks of mattress or clothing. With each piece that I moved, more letters began to appear until a word formed.