by Kelly Stern

Years later, he has a recurring dream.

He is trapped somewhere. High walls, glass walls -- green glass walls. Like Oz, but evil. Light above him, but the walls -- no good for climbing. No doors, and he yells and he yells and no one comes.

Ten years old. When his father tried to talk to him about his mother, all he heard were things like "it's not your fault," "it was her decision, not yours," "there's nothing you could have done." When his father tried to explain why she had "taken her own life," he imagined her tearing her life out of her chest and dragging it twisting by one arm down the street, her head held high, determined not to be embarrassed by the neighbors.

He looked to his father to know how to act, to know how to grieve his mother's death. And the first thing he learned was that he was not to mention the word "death" or even "mother." It was "she" who had passed on, "she" who had gone to a better place, "she" who had been taken from them. And he could not understand this -- his father had seen the same body, the same mess of blood in the bathtub, the same grimace on the face of one who had clearly not gone to a better place, or been passively "taken." But his father seemed to be happier with this explanation of events -- he did not cry at night in the room next door, he did not throw up his breakfast, or scratch at the table-top, or grind his teeth so hard he forgot to breathe. His father only seemed distracted more often now, would forget what he was cooking in the middle of an omelet, or leave the house without a jacket or car keys. Other people cried and petted the half-orphan, but from his father he learned that this was not the way to mourn one's mother.

He yells and he yells and no one comes. Tries to break the wall with his shoulder, but only creates a reverberation, reverberation around the room -- the room is circular. A circular glass room, one opening, twenty feet above. Tries to dig through the floor -- it's glass too, and he hits his head with his fists and jumps up and down and he beats on the walls again, jumps up and down, yells as loud as he can -- not so anyone will help him -- this won't happen, he knows -- but to avoid having to hurt himself. In his panic. Sits down in the middle of the room, tries to calm himself, think of a plan to get out. Closes his eyes, and counts to sixty.

The image of her, as he found her, curled in the dry bathtub, already cold, in her robe. At first, when he saw her clenched fists and the agony in her smile, he thought she was curled up in pain. He wondered what could cause pain like that, pain that could make you squeeze your fists so tightly your fingernails broke palm-skin and made your fists look like they were squeezing a bloody sponge hidden in there somewhere. Pain that could make you clench your teeth so hard your cheekbones popped out of your face. And when he realized his mother was dead, he began to feel a scratching at his own ribcage. He began to understand that there could be a pain so ferocious you had to keep it in, no matter what, because it could rip itself out if you let it. And even though you tried to keep it in, it still seeped out whenever it could, with no regard to how tightly you crushed your hands against your eyes or your ears, no matter how tightly you clamped down on your fingers to stop it coming out your mouth.

Closes his eyes, and counts to sixty. When he opens his eyes, he realizes he's trapped in a bottle. Somehow, he is aware that in this world, being trapped in a bottle is the same as having died, and he mourns himself, crying himself awake.