Eggshells

I'm standing in my hallway. The first step feels just as before. My heel clicks down on the floor, that reassuring sound of a step. Then my foot descends and I can hear the small cracks and groans of shell breaking. The ball of my foot swivels, grinding the egg shells into the floor, turning them slowly to dust.

And gingerly I step again. The floor is covered with them, my home is filled with them. Eggshells. Delicate white homes long since abandoned. They lay there open, empty, sad and lonely. A path of sharp jags and smooth surfaces. My steps are timid amongst them. I try to fit my steps between them, tread carefully, be silent. Still, they groan under my shoe and crack. Dissolving under my soles, coloring the black with telltale white. They threaten to cut me, then shatter under me. They threaten to bar my way, and break under my need.

The sound is unbearable. Disturbing, disgusting. Each snap makes the skin stand up on my arms. My pulse races. I can hear each little wall crumble and fall, dying a second death. The once comforting home for a baby. The small precious gift. So lovingly warmed, so gently moved. Then so violently destroyed.

I wish I was weightless. Made of air so I could silently pass through my home, escape out the door. Instead every move closer is a move louder. The shells splice open to more jagged edges, more razor sharp obstacles. The tiny sounds of soft shell breaking apart may as well be thunder. Every word is a crack, every idea I voice, every breath I make is the sky opening up and splitting my little peace in two.

And still I'm walking, leaving a trail of fine white power in my wake.