A Million Broken Pieces
Category A: Highly Commended (2024) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Quin Ang
Bubbly, optimistic, confident, perfect. That’s what they see; someone who pulls others back up and illuminates the room like sunshine after the rain; the bright smile plastered on my face, wide and friendly and welcoming. That’s all they ever will see: only the facade, the mask that sits tightly on me.
What they don’t see is the face behind the facade. What they don’t see is the broken person forever second guessing herself. What they don’t see is the endless torrent of thoughts that flood my mind.
What if the facade falls apart? What if they see how broken you truly are?
They’ll leave me. Broken things are meant to be thrown away after all.
My bag drops to the floor with a dull thud and I collapse into my pillows and blankets; my safe haven. I let my facade fall apart as the fatigue catches up to me and surrender myself to the never-ending tornado of thoughts that haunt me like a vengeful ghost.
They hate you, the voice sneers, they don’t value your company as much as you think they do. The only reason they keep you around is because of pity. Face it, you’re broken, and they see right through your little facade.
I hate how much sense the voice makes. How else am I meant to explain feeling so lonely even amongst a crowd of people I consider my friends? I’m always just there, left behind, like a ghost.
What if I disappear? Would anyone miss me?
The cogs start turning in my mind as my brain starts running through the logistics; maybe, just maybe, this way I might not be a burden to everyone around me. I wouldn’t continue to hurt them anymore. They wouldn’t have to hurt themselves glueing back together a million broken, shattered pieces.
A little nagging voice starts to chirp at the back of my mind; the part that still believes I can still be fixed. The part that believes maybe, all I need is just a little more glue and tape and a wave of a magic wand.
What if you reached out?
For a split second, I consider it. Finally peeling away the mask stuck on my face, finally letting someone else pull me up for once. But I know better. I know that it’s just a stupid idea, that I’ll just be a burden. Everyone else has something else so much more important than me to deal with. I can just deal with it myself, exactly as I have done before.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to act like I am perfectly okay, that I don’t fight the nightmares and terrors that consume me all night. I’ll have to paint a smile and fake a laugh. I can’t risk being a burden to them. I can’t risk showing them that I’ve shattered into a million broken pieces.