This is an image I wrote over the summer that I'm not quite sure is complete. (I'm never quite sure if the things I make are complete most of the time anyway.) Thoughts would be really appreciated.
Fractals shattered across her face, wiping the tears as she felt the warmth run down her fingers. It caressed her hand gently and held her with a fragile grip. She heard it ask, “are you okay,” but as she tightened her fist, hoping to bring it closer, the warmth turned liquid and slipped between her fingers.
Blood ran faster from her knuckles, flowing through the gaps between her fingers, and passing her fingertips to the floor. She felt every drop tick off of her at an inconsistent rate. A pool formed silently under her clenched fist. The arrhythmic patterns of her blood matched the fumbling hands of the clock as they danced around the cracks on the mirror.
She watched the hands juggle time as she tried to maintain her grip on the warm caress that was escaping her quickly. How could something, without thought, grasp time so well? They laughed at her feeble grip. Her gaze swept over to her own reflection, embarrassed.
Trying to get a clearer view, she tried to brush away the cracks. Blood rushed from her fingertips through every crevice of her shattered reflection. They casted over every fracture, filling all the empty spaces with a bright ruby red.
Enamored by their beauty she traced every blood-filled crack on the mirror with her fingers. She grew frustrated. There were no discernible patterns to the fractured glass. What made it beautiful? How could something so inconsistent captivate me so much? She heard it say, “thank you.”
Staring at her bloody hand, she wondered why her fractures weren’t as beautiful. She tried to grasp at the the warmth and studied the clock again hoping to find the single drop of blood that would mend her shattered self.
There was something she was missing, but she couldn’t help but linger onto the idea that maybe what she needed was either in the hands of herself or the clock.