The Glass Eater

I look at myself in the make-up streaked mirror attached to my locker. A beige jot looks back at me.

Buttoned together by brown-marbled eyes, there is nothing remarkable holding my face together, the exception being my cleft chin.

As I trace the side of my jawline with a contouring brush, I think of how the soft lines fade and blend into the wall behind me, not unlike construction putty. There is no sharpness to prick anyone’s attention. No topographies of guile and wit tracing my face that would map out an impression in anyone’s head.

I look down to adjust the gold-plated name tag on the pocket of my black, button-down shirt. My name, Leah, embossed in delicate cursive on the thin metal plate, sounds as grating as a soaked cat mewling hungrily in a back alley for attention.

I am, when all is said and done, inconsequential. An uninteresting khaki shadow, subject to the whims of others’ perceptions.

“Could you possibly put on any more make-up, Leah?” The Manager calls out from a hallway so dark; I can only see the silver gleam of his wristwatch. “We’re about to open in ten minutes.”

I closed the locker door quietly. The day begins. It is an uncharacteristically hot September weekend, and I can hardly catch my breath.

We move tactically between the kitchen and the patio to fill and refill drink orders. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The server’s tango, stamped out at breakneck speed, all to scrape together our meager pay, which is just above minimum wage. If we get good tips.

I try not to sweat, but I can feel a thin bead of foundation-tinted perspiration collect at the nape of my neck.

In a moment of respite, I walk to the ice maker, located next to the dishwasher, and rub an ice cube on my wrist and temples to cool myself down.

The churning groan of the dishwasher’s conveyor belt settles me. I watch as the dishes go in dirty on one end and, blasted with scalding water as they move through the machine, come out white and sparkling on the other.

Unfortunately, the chemical stench of the soap gives me allergies. I begin to sneeze uncontrollably on a stack of clean dinner plates.

“Fuck, Leah, now we’re going to have to wash them again,” Reynaldo, the dishwasher shoos me away in disgust, “And don’t touch anything, you’ll get all your nasty, melty ass face on my clean plates.”

As he swats me with a dishtowel, I stumble and accidentally elbow a lone champagne flute into the dispenser below the ice maker. It falls in and explodes into a thousand little shards, indiscernible from the ice.

Reynaldo laughs at me and does nothing to help. His stance has always been clear. “Just coz you earn more than me, doesn’t mean you won’t get dirty.”

I hate how unhelpful he can be. How much he can get underfoot and in my way.

I think it best not to respond and bend over the dispenser silently, to look at the constellation of broken glass and crushed ice.

Everything has blended into one frosty singularity. I want to pick apart the pieces I need to clean out precisely. I do. But my hands hover and freeze, daunted by such an impossible task.

My heart begins to beat wildly. My throat tightens. I gasped and started to think: what would happen if someone accidentally got a sliver of glass mixed in with their ice in their soda?

Especially, the more miniscule bits, like the ones that can sometimes get caught in the whorls of flesh at the bottoms of your toes after you drop a glass in the kitchen late at night, the ones that slice off small tags of skin and make you trail tiny drops of blood back to your bed, like a trail of red crumbs left behind to tattle a secret trail to an even more hidden place.

I start to think about the effect of these bits coursing down the red, glossy pipe of your esophagus, the pink lining of your stomach, perhaps even as far down as the folds of your intestines. The tiny, microscopic shards, nestling into the pulsing viscera, until tiny, black drops begin to pool and leak, turning you into a sieve from the inside out.

I start to think: If you chewed on one single, gleaming glass fragment, thinking it was a deliciously clear, and cool piece of ice, would it slide down at just the right angle and glide with scalpel-like precision, tracing a deep vertical line from the tip of your tongue to the end of your anus?

“You have been holding up my shit all day, you dumb fucking cow. Some of us don’t have our parent’s money waiting in a trust and need to earn a living.” My co-worker Maria shoves me out of the way to reach down into the ice dispenser for the large metallic scooper to fill up three glasses with ice.

She doesn’t ask why I’m standing there.

Which means she doesn’t know about the broken glass in the ice.

“Wait–” I call out to her as she places it on her tray.

“Too late. I need to run this,” she says to me as she walks away with staccato steps. Her long black braid swayed pendulously behind her, tracing a line from right to left hip.

Her plump ass takes up as much space as her entitled rudeness.

“You don’t understand–” I start meekly, but I freeze again when I notice I have a small nick from the flute on my index finger. I raise it to eye level. Nothing in the cut.

When I finally manage to shift my gaze, I realize in horror that Maria has placed the glasses in front of a man, a woman, and a little girl, who smiles widely.

I could go out there, I think. I should say something.

The expected happens less than ten minutes after the thought crystallizes. A yelp, followed by crying sounds, followed by outraged yelling.

I think that maybe I’ve had good thoughts about the wrong things.

---

Maria is ejected from the restaurant soon after. The little girl cut her lip with the contents of her drink. I volunteer no information to the Manager to keep Maria on board.

Our dishwasher, Reynaldo, called me out for it later. “Damn, you’re really going to do Maria like that?” he asks, incredulously, “She was saving up to bring her mama from El Salvador.”

He teases me. He says I’m responsible. He makes life difficult.

My locker is broken into. Nothing is stolen but the mirror is shattered, the word BITCH scrawled in red across the glass and aluminum. I sniff it and confirm it to be tomato sauce. Through the crusted smears and spiderwebbed lines, my face looks equally fragmented.

I think on it during my day off as the rain pelts the window and splinters the gray sidewalk below.

I decide to tell the members of the chatroom about the champagne flute, the glass shards in the ice box, and the little girl. I tell them about the bullying and those darker thoughts that coalesced like polished obsidian just before the incident.

My fingers barrage the keyboard like hail. These anonymous users are the only ones I talk to about my life.

“They used to kill mob bosses in prison like that. With crushed glass,” user DarkRoom671 responds.

“They would grind it up, real fine like, and sprinkle it like salt in the food. Do that over a period of time, and someone’s insides slowly get sliced up. Something you’re thinking of doing?”

Another user, TheStoryof(bard)O, pops up. Three dots appear, signaling continued typing.

“That is some La Confession level shit. Guy de Maupassant wrote this story about a jealous woman who confesses to her dying sister that she is the one responsible for the death of her beloved. But the way she kills him is by pouring ground up glass into his cake.”

I keep looking out the window. My shift is going to start soon. But my reflection on the window is less vague today, even if all I can see are the worn, bloated, and purple circles under my eyes.

I type: “The point is, I’m terrified of eating glass. I don’t want to see it. Or touch it after everything. Is this normal?”

“Actually, it’s a condition. Nelophobia. I’ve read about it. Will say I’ve never seen it personally, even though I’m an RN.” PrincessImPeach85 types in the chat.. “Sounds like an extreme manifestation of it.”

I sit back in my chair. The word crystallizes on the tip of my tongue. I reread the word out loud.

“Nelophobia.”

There’s a squeegee-like ring to the word.

Nelophobia.

Cleansing. Yet repellent. Like wet glass being rubbed raw until it can gleam brighter than a star.

I look out the window. The sky is darker, heavier, and my heart is racing. My stomach and colon are burning, my forehead is pin-pricked by small, frigid beads of sweat.

But I relish this quickening.

I let my body react. I let it confess its deepest fears to me. With joy, I swill the faint metallic taste lingering in the back of my throat.

---

Weeks go by since PrincessImPeach85 gives it its name.

Sleep is difficult. My dreams are polluted with little girls and their bleeding mouths, running barefoot above the disjointed slivers of the day.

Eating is even more taxing. I try to eat carrot cake, my favorite dessert, at a local cafe, but I am unable to. After finally reading Maupassant, I can only push the plate away in terror. The cake splatters on the wall, and the broken plate assembles itself on the cobblestones like a demented grin.

Everything is poisoned by broken champagne flutes. Every crunch and crackle of autumn leaves digs into my throat and gut, triggering my gag reflex.

But in the mirror, I see myself. Firmer and gaunter than before. The lines are sharper and more aggressive. Something altogether more there.

Still, it would be hard to see a doctor. My health insurance is essentially non-existent, I lament to my co-worker Aneesa.

There is nothing left but to self-manage my condition, I confide in her. This means that I can’t assist with clean-up as much as before.

She snorts derisively.

“Yeah, well, I have a condition, too. It’s called section eight, and I still got three young mouths to feed. If you’re sick, get help. Because I can’t be standing around here listening to your ass cry about glass again,” she nudges me away, rolling her eyes.

While it’s not a hard push, it's enough to make me stumble into a stack of water glasses, tilting perilously on the edge of the chrome counter. I whimper, expecting them to collapse into a shattered pile. Nothing happens. She hesitates but apologizes perfunctorily before scuttling off to the dining room.

From the back, Reynaldo—who has been watching, lizard-like– calls out to me with increased disgust, “You ain’t sick, bitch. You’re just talking shit coz you feel bad for fucking over Maria. And we’re all tired of hearing of it.”

I look him in the eyes, smile tightly, and say nothing. I pick up my server tray and continue my shift, mercifully without breaking anything. But I think to myself, I wonder what sound Reynaldo might make when he breaks.

Life is easier when you imagine you can crunch someone underfoot.

I followed Aneesa’s advice and decided to be proactive about my situation and invest in therapy.

I shift my weight uncomfortably in the beige, microfiber lounge chair. I feel as if my sweat will leave an imprint on the material that sticks to my skin. My feet curl inside my boots like shivering rabbits hiding from a snowstorm.

I can’t tell what my reflection looks like today. The window in the office is shuttered by lightly dusted teak slats.

“It would be advisable, moving forward, for you to continue your treatment,” the doctor prattles on. “More importantly, you should avoid being on the internet for prolonged periods of time, or at least when you find that you’re having an episode. Try reading more or maybe get a dog.”

I nod my head, absent-mindedly. I ask her the question that’s slowly been collecting at the base of my throat like rising mercury. “Is it real, doctor?”

“What is?” She raises her eyebrows.

“My condition. Am I so afraid of glass that I would hurt myself and others?”

“You should really think about that for a moment, Leah. Why do you need to know if it’s real? Real to whom? Validated by whom?” The doctor sighs.

“Science, I guess,” I shrug. “I mean, it happens, doesn’t it? Schizophrenics can have an insidious onset in their later years, and victims of serious trauma or PTSD can be triggered by sounds, smells, and words. Why not broken glass?”

“You can’t force pathology. But you are correct in that there is so much we don’t know about the human brain, that we continue to study situations like these so we can understand individuals and treat them, comprehensively and compassionately,” The therapist takes off her eye glasses, “That’s why we’ll continue to work so that you understand that this,” she spins the glasses around in her hands, “can’t hurt you. What you do with it and how you react to it, can.”

I swallow thickly, with some annoyance, and look away again, only to be greeted by the blocked window.

“Are you thinking of hurting yourself, Leah?” she asks cautiously, gently.

I look at the doctor with renewed interest and expectation. “No, no. Of course not.”

---

Later that week, I am sent a link to a video on YouTube of a man who eats glass.

“Impossible.” I type. “Even if he did, he probably didn’t survive.”

“Watch it. All these other idiots were bull-shitting you,” user HammersBane0101 responds.

I watched it. The man, possibly from India, sits at a colorfully clothed wooden table. He is served a halogen light bulb on a ceramic plate. Without a second thought, he places the bulb into his mouth and makes the first crack with his incisors.

I can’t help but throw up. By the time I get back from cleaning up, the man in the video has finished the entire light bulb.

But I still refuse to believe it. I look at the chatroom log.

PrincessImPeach85 hasn’t logged on in several days. She would know.

Surely, she would, as an RN.

I continue to look online for confirmation of my condition. I log on to Snoops.com, a myth-debunking site, and type in “is sprinkling finely-ground glass in food an effective method for killing a person.”

I scroll down.

False. Ingesting ground glass isn't inherently fatal.

I stare at the result. It’s incomprehensible. I feel the back of my head crack like a Fabergé egg.

A chat window pops up.

It’s PrincessImPeach85.

“Are you ok? Your messages sound heated,” they type. “I was on call for a few days. So, I couldn’t respond.”

I stare at the window and type back, “It’s ok. I just need to know: is Nelophobia a real condition?”

Three bubbles appear next to PrincessImPeach85’s name. I wait for the response to manifest itself.

“The fear of glass can manifest physical symptoms, like all phobias. It can feel real. You’re not crazy, sugar.”

The blue glow from the screen shrouds me in a cold light. I look at the window, now glazed in the early treads of December's icy fingers.

“But, specifically, the fear of EATING glass. Is that a phobia?” I reply. “There’s historical and literary evidence that eating glass, ground glass, functioned as a way of poisoning people. Eating, swallowing, and ingesting glass can kill a person. It’s a real condition. It must be real. Right?”

The three bubbles next to PrincessImPeach85 appear. Then fade. They reappear, then fade.

I wait for an hour for her to tell me exactly what it is I need to be afraid of. To organize my fears.

And I wait. And I wait. And I wait.

Until it’s time to go to work and I can no longer make sense of my own shape.

---

The bang and clatter from the stoves and the strafing movements from the wait staff do little to move me from my stupor. I keep staring at the ice. Each piece is so like the other. Is it possible that I am so equally unremarkable?

“Guess what, Leah?” Reynaldo comes behind me with a tray of dirty dishes prepped for washing. He places it down on the conveyor belt that feeds into the dishwasher.

I acknowledged him briefly.

“Looks like we’re gonna be working the floor together starting next week. Guess everyone got tired of your pale, mopey ass.”

I look at him, annoyed and a bit hurt hearing about his promotion, “You’ve only been here a few months.”

“Yeah, but look at you. Had a weekend off, and you still look and act like you’re dying,” he says acidly. “Well, I got news for you, I’m no dummy. I’ve been in this shit hole for months with no time off and I’m not going to let myself get cut like Maria. I used to be an engineer back in Honduras.”

He rumbles endlessly, so in tune with the machine he masters. But I’ve stopped listening.

I want him to know that I am, in fact, sick. But not how I thought I was.

It’s a different kind of sickness.

I was wrong, but he wasn’t right.

It’s legitimate. I won’t feel guilty for being sick. And he must be nicer about it.

I don’t notice how close I am to Reynaldo until I’m towering above him. He’s short, perhaps shoulder height to me. I don’t think he’s ever realized how much bigger I am, either, in comparison to him.

When he finally does, he gives a start, almost dropping the tray of clean dishes, “Puta, Leah. You scared me–”

I look at him with cold eyes and move quickly. I take a glass out of the tray and smash it against the conveyor belt. Blood blooms across my palm and wrist.

“What the fuck, Leah! We’re going to get in trouble. I need this job!” Reynaldo squeals.

I don’t hear him. I take a piece of glass and shove it into my mouth. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I feel it tear my gums under my molars. My tongue gets pierced. Reynaldo’s eyes bulge. I am determined.

I Am Not. Well. I state to myself.

I take another piece to let my declaration be heard. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

This time, I feel a shard embed itself into the roof of my mouth. Whatever nerve it tickles, this –combined with the chemical smell of the dishwasher suds—causes me to sneeze violently.

The blood sprays on Reynaldo’s face.

“Vale verga este trabajo!” Reynaldo screams. He shuts his eyes and backs into the dishwashing machine.

As he stumbles, he drops the tray and stumbles into the conveyor belt, sending more plates flying through the air. Knives, forks, and spoons splash in a chrome wave around my feet. The drops of blood dripping from my chin and nose draw their thin pointillism on the cutlery like an impressionist garland asserting their claim.

“Leah!” I hear from behind. It’s the outraged Manager, flanked by Aneesa. A blood-spattered Reynaldo joins them.

It’s the last human thing I hear before the darkness and churn of the dishwasher overtakes us all.

---

I wake up in a hospital.

My mouth stings. Oh, god, it stings.

I run my tongue and feel the stitches lining the inside of my mouth. A molar is missing.

On the side table, I see a card with Get Well Soon scrawled in rainbow script by a cartoon teddy bear.

“That was quite the show you put on, missy,” a nurse hovers above me looking at my chart, clicking her pen incessantly.

I shake my head. “Nelophobia.” I moan, almost unintelligibly.

“Let me get the doctor.” The nurse clicks her pen one final time and leaves.

I lay in the smothering silence of pastel popcorn walls and starched sheets. The IV drips morphine into my arm. Somewhere, a clock ticks.

“Hello, Leah,” the doctor comes in, interrupting the lull. I look at his tag. He’s the head of psychiatry.

“Nelophobia,” I mumble again. “Glass.”

He looks at me with sympathetic blue eyes. “Yes, Leah. The fear of glass. But if you’re afraid, why did you eat it?”

I stare at the ceiling and search for an answer that makes sense.

Nothing logical comes to mind.

“We’re going to transfer you to the county psychiatric ward and keep you for a while, let you rest.” I look at the doctor with resignation.

“You should know that your co-workers came to see you. They brought you flowers and this card. One of them, Raul? Reynauld? The short, Latin-looking one. He brought you a stuffed animal.” The doctor scans the room. “I’ll see if they’ve brought it back from processing.”

My eyes open wide. A small drop forms at the corner of my left eye and traces a line backwards, to my hairline. As I shut my eyes, I let out a contented sigh.

They believed me.

---

The Manager comes by with Aneesa. After she leaves, he lingers and asks if I will sue the restaurant. I benevolently shake my head. He sighs in relief and hands me a box full of fresh pastries from the bakery.

Maria—the waitress who was fired after the first incident with the champagne flute— also comes by. We talk with a closeness that resembles sisters. It was rough at first. But I landed on my feet, so you shouldn’t feel bad about that. You were probably feeling so sick, she says apologetically.

I gaze at a table piled with cards, flowers in varying states of wilt, and Reynaldo’s teddy bear.

She catches me staring at it and lets me know that Reynaldo was deported back to Honduras. Unfortunately, it happened right after he dropped off the bear. Someone ratted him out to ICE, She looks at me with fear in her eyes. You should know that he felt incredibly sorry about everything.

I smile and raise the teddy bear and draw it close to my chest. The culminating proof of my condition and its power.

I feel better than I have in months. I see myself better than I have in years.

As I pull out the soft, brown fibers from the bear’s plushy head one by one, letting them fall softly on the grey linoleum floor, I hope that his removal back to Tegucigalpa certainly wasn’t on my account.

I walk to the window and note that the season’s first snow has started to fall. A frail layer of frost glazes the world with white muteness. I watch the thin icicles hanging from the roof waver in the wind like loose teeth.

My face manifests its reflection, suspended on the wintry lines and cracks. I smile sincerely, albeit with effort. A thin line of blood leaks from the corner of my parched, grey mouth.

And I have never looked more solid.