THE GLASS MAN

THE BUZZING LIGHTS of the lampposts illuminated the curves of my tired eyelids, counting each one as my crimson Silverado blazed past my apartment for the fourth time. I had tallied up five lights when I last looped around the block, but I wasn’t allowed to shove my gear into park until I passed exactly seven. Not six, not eight—seven. Or something bad would happen.  

Only two lampposts away from the magic number, I thought about leaving my banged-up beauty in front of Billy’s place. But then I remembered he spat on my tires and pounded on my windshield with his son’s handcrafted Save the Planet flyer when I perused near his lawn weeks ago. Whipping my sun-beaten steering wheel down a different road this time, I held my breath hoping I could count exactly seven before reaching my driveway.  

“Four…five…” I was getting closer. Ecstasy filled my veins as Otter Creek Drive’s rugged street sign stood tall in the weeds, swaying in the wind, waving at me to come back home. My hands reached for the stereo knob, incrementally blasting whatever song was murmuring through the speakers. The lyrics sang: 

Yellow lights are fading 

Darkness speaks to me 

Glass Man is waiting 

For no gasoline 

My eyes darted towards the fuel gauge. The arrow pointed limply below the E, and my stare became emptier than my gas tank. The engine let out cries of sputters, purring along the desolate pavement, echoing its dying breath into the winds that became colder by the second. My foot floored the gas pedal, pushing the one ton piece of metal a few more inches up the hill, past another light. “Six! There’s six!” I glanced down at the sound of radio static. A piece of pointed, slender glass ejected itself from the CD player. I clenched my fist and swung at the noise—that screechy, ear-jarring noise—only to be gifted bloody knuckles. Another piece of clear, jagged edges followed behind the first one, and another, and another, until all five glass fingers sprung towards my fingers. Their grip paralyzed my senses, and my once all-black interior became painted red as I shot my wrist back, trying to find the off button on the staticky stereo. It must’ve been broken. 

One last street light accompanied my apartment, lazily hanging by the side of my shuttered window—the window I had to reach if I wanted to stay alive. Glass shards dug into my right knee cap as I swung my shoulders atop the steering wheel, praying my body weight would befriend gravity as the road shifted downhill. The yellowness was glorious and beautiful and—“Seven,” I said. My back fell against some ripped cloth as I crinkled my eyes and placed the gear into park. I peered at the window, at the lampposts, at the stereo. There was no sound. Nobody. Nothing. I’m going crazy, I thought. My therapist was right. 

As I unlocked the truck door, a drop of blood stained the seat cover.