The Stone

Heather sat alone in the dark, a grade-eleven chemistry text book still open beside her, and cradling a small blackened rock in her hands. Her room was her only truly private space, and she needed privacy most of all right now. She wanted to be alone and yet she didn't; because she had been alone all her life, it just seemed most natural. She had reached out in the past, and had kept pleasant company, but there were always so many failings and hurts when she was with people; she couldn't force herself to be with anyone this evening. Tonight she stayed inside, away from the people that could hurt her. She didn't want to risk getting torn apart in the dangerous hustle and bustle of the outside world.

She thought about her endless days of loneliness, of high hopes dashed when new friends drift off for other relationships, and of lies and insults that cut her more than sticks or stones ever could. When it had seemed like she was worth nothing, she had given herself away cheaply, into the arms of boys who might love her, but invariably looted her for personal profit before leaving her. She became the slut, as her father liked to tell her; her mother merely argued without bringing up the issue of sex, but she brought up everything else that was wrong with Heather. The few acquaintances that Heather could claim as friends gave her little support, and when she became moody and depressed, they didn't want her around at all. Her life was becoming quite useless and disposable. The pain from years of abuse was becoming too much to bear.

But then, the other week, she had met a new friend at a friend's party -- someone two years older, named Peter. He was Lisa's older brother, and was in his first year at university. He had spoken words of understanding and compassion, and it had seemed to Heather that she could trust him, and that he would care for her and be good to her, at least as a friend. He was a good man. She had held out her very heart to him, in hopes that he would take it carefully, and take time to understand it, and appreciate it, and maybe help it grow. (She had left it in an envelope in his mailbox, unable to face him with the embarrassing, pulsing mass in her open hands.)

Several days later, she dropped by his house to see him. They sat down together in his room, he in a chair in the corner, and she on his bed. Heather glanced about the room, pretending to admire his posters, but really looking around to see if he had put her gift in a prominent place, or if perhaps he had it sitting on top of his desk from recent study. It was nowhere to be seen. Her stomach twisted and turned as she thought about asking him how he liked what she had given him, but she didn't want to show her apprehension. She tried to ask him about his feelings on the matter off-handedly, as if in passing, even though she was in desperate earnest.

"Yes, in fact, I did receive your package in the mail. It was quite beautiful. What do you call it?"

She was too embarrassed to say. But she took confidence in the fact that he liked it enough to ask about it, and ignored the imprudence of his question. Instead she asked Peter what he thought it might be.

"I guess it seems to be some kind of glass trinket," he said in all seriousness, "for wearing about one's neck. I'm afraid I haven't gotten around to putting it on a chain yet, though. Yes, indeed, a most charming little bit of artwork."

Heather looked away from him, down at the threadbare carpet, then through the dirty glass at the wild wide world. Her mind reeled at how crazy her life was becoming on this confounded planet. "Well, no," she answered him softly, lovingly, near tears. "It isn't really a trinket. I suppose you could say it is made of glass, and I'm glad you found it beautiful, but. . . it isn't really what you think it is." She paused and allowed the lump in her throat to settle. "Do you really not understand it?"

"I'm sorry, I guess I'm just having a little trouble understanding it. I didn't do so well there. I didn't really mean that bit about the necklace. I really think it is wonderful, though. Did you make it yourself? I think you did a splendid job if you did." Peter paused, waiting for her reaction to this compliment. "It is very beautiful," he continued. "I congratulate you. I look forward to seeing more of your work."

"Well," she replied, again rather timidly, "it isn't really my own work, although I myself have put a lot of work into it. I think it's mostly the work of other artists. You may notice where parts have been chipped and jaded? This is also the work of various artists. But I'm not sure whether I'd really call it 'art', either. Honestly, does it remind you of anything? Do you recognize it from anywhere?"

"Yes, I think I do recognize it a little from somewhere. I'm not sure where. . . ." Peter paused again, and looked up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Pity about those jaded parts, though," he mused, looking back into her eyes with sympathy. "You really should do something about them."

Heather thought she could hear some compassion in his voice, and so she grasped it and tried to tell him more. "I suppose I've been trying to fix it. It's quite difficult, though. Sometimes just when I think it's finally working properly, it fails on me, and does something quite unexpected. I guess it's just too badly damaged to bother saving. I'm thinking about discarding it. What do you think?"

"Oh, you shouldn't just throw it away," Peter answered quickly. "Perhaps I can help. I am rather busy, but if you call and leave a message on my machine, I'm sure we could set up a workshop appointment. I have an excellent set of tools for such work. In fact, I happen to have an amazing 'one-size-fits-all' wrench and ratchet set, and I think it would work wonders on this little bit of handiwork."

"I see. Hm."

"But all that aside, is there anything else I can help you with? I do like to help people, especially people as interesting as you."

"Um, if you wouldn't mind, I think I'd just like to take my little piece of handiwork back for a few days. I can see that you appreciate it, and I'd love to lend it to you again sometime, but not right now. I'm just afraid it might get broken again if I leave it lying around somewhere. It's not that I don't trust you, but I know we'd both feel bad if it got broken while you were borrowing it."

"Okay," he said, rising from his armchair. "Thank you for lending it to me, anyway."

At this point he went to his desk, shuffled through a few stained and wrinkled papers, tossed aside an odd-looking wrench, shuffled through the papers again, and finally produced the jewel. It had been knocked around a little bit while on his desk, having things thrown on top of it etc etc, but it was still quite recognizable. She just wanted it back in one piece, that was all. She reached out her hand to him and smiled appreciatively.

"Thank you," she half-whispered, as he held it out to her for her to retrieve. But just at the last moment, the phone rang, and he turned to pick up the receiver. He carelessly let her heart slip through his fingers, and it fell to the floor with a sickening thud. She heard it crack, just as he said "hello" to his friend. She stood dumbfounded for a moment, then leant over to pick it up. (It was still in one piece, and could be mended, but it would take a long time, barring any new damage.) She placed it gently into her handbag, and cushioned it with soft memories. There was an awkward wait while Peter talked with his friend on the phone; after a minute she felt she should go. (It was at that moment that she knew the damage was irreparable, and her heart had to be discarded as waste.) She took hold of the door handle, and turned back to him to let him know she was leaving. He noticed her, uttered something to the other end, then placed his hand over the mouthpiece.

"You heading out?"

"Yeh." She pulled the door open, and looked back at him again. "Thanks for your time," she said. "I guess I'll be seeing you, whenever."

"It was my pleasure. Come again anytime; I'd love to hear from you," he said. "Until then?"

"Yeh. Bye," she said, and left in a cloud of sadness.

And so, that evening in the dark several days later, Heather sat in her room alone, waiting for something or someone to tell her what to do. Her heart was too badly damaged to tell her anything, and her head was getting a bit muddled as well, without her heart there to guide it. She didn't trust either of them by this point.

The fracture in her heart wouldn't have been so bad, but it had been handled carelessly all her life, and she didn't think it could take any more abuse. She had built walls around it to protect it from outside invasion, but as her heart struggled to break free, the walls were battered down from within, and they eventually became ineffective. Her fortress was always falling, and she always rebuilt it, but after a while it seemed like she wouldn't be able to keep up. The incident with Peter would be the last time ever that she would let her heart escape from its prison.

Now, in the darkness, as she held the cracked, jaded, blackened rock that has once been a source of life and joy, she made her decision final: it was not worth saving. She had already made up a will and paid off her outstanding debts, so once she went over everything in her head a few times, she made preparations to have the filthy offense put to rest once and for all.

She turned on her bedside lamp, and wrote a note of explanation. It would be a very messy situation, and she wanted to apologize in advance for any harm done. Heather signed it, sealed it, addressed the envelope, then laid back into the softness of her bed. She relaxed her stressed body into the thick comforter, knowing that she had met the end of her troubles. The kitchen knife in her hand, she pressed the point firmly into the rock. It shattered easily into a thousand pieces, spilling all over, and left quite a mess for those who would come in the next morning.

Her heart had been seared and cracked far too often for there to be any kind of a clean break.

Contact the author: Craig D. Martin

Last update: Saturday, April 10, 1999 23:23