"If it Falls it must be Broken" by Renee Reizman

“If it falls it must be broken. But it did not fall. Why did it shatter?” the same sentence was uttered over and over again. Every syllable pronounced sharp and quietly. The voice was only over a whisper.

Arrays of lights filled an empty mind, with the words echoing through it. There were no scenes, only pictures. Still images. There was a garden of red roses, a mirror that was milky clear, and that vacant stare. Those eyes. They pierced the soul.

“If it falls it must be broken. But it did not fall. Why did it shatter?”

The little girl had no color to her flesh. She had no feeling in her voice. She was nothing. And her vacant, staring eyes would not draw their gaze down. Those eyes. They pierced the soul.

The mirror had stood against that broad, white wall. Reflecting nothing. It was milky colored, clouded and gray, but still crystal clear. But there was no reflection. Only pictures. Still images.

“If it falls it must be broken. But it did not fall. Why did it shatter?”

Pictures were reflected in the mirror. But they were not really reflections. The milky mirror had no reflection. It was only pictures. Still images.

It showed the rose garden. The garden, enveloped in the night, was a long valley of nothingness. It was nothing but roses. If there were wind, it’d be a shower of petals. A scent could have soothed one’s senses.

“If it falls it must be broken. But it did not fall. Why did it shatter?”

And in that mirror, where no reflection took place, was the rose garden. And in that rose garden, where a scent could have soothed one’s senses, was the girl. And in that girl, whose vacant eyes pierced the soul was nothing. There was nothingness all around. It was nothing but roses.

But the wind did blow. And the petals did fly. And the girl stood there, she whispered her words once again. But there was no sound, only an echo. Every syllable pronounced sharply.

“If it falls it must be broken. But it did not fall. Why did it shatter?”

The blank white wall, where the mirror reflected nothing, did not tremble. Nothing stirred all was silent. But the milky colored, clouded and gray, but still crystal clear mirror shattered.

But it hadn’t of fallen. It stood on that wall, an empty frame. And on the floor lay the pieces of the cracked glass, each reflecting a piece of the rose garden and the girl. There were no scenes, only pictures. Still images.

“If it falls it must be broken. But it did not fall. Why did it shatter?”

And as the array of light filled that empty mind, with the same words uttered over and over again, there was no answer. The little girl, who had no color in her flesh and no feeling in her voice, stood there piercing the soul. It did not stop. There was nothingness all around. It was nothing but roses.

And the pieces lied on the floor, only being cracked glass. But there were no scenes, only pictures. And the wind did blow, and the petals did fly. But it did not move. There were only still images.

“If it falls it must be broken. But it did not fall. Why did it shatter?”