Broken Arrow

I have been breaking things. I don’t mean that metaphorically.

It started with a tiny plate, one of those little dainty things that you rest a hot tea cup on. What the hell are those called?

Unknown nomenclature aside, it started with that. I pulled it out of the cabinet and the thought rang through my head as clear as a bell; I should drop this on the floor.

So, I did.

I watch it fall and shatter into four big pieces and countless little shards on the hardwood in complete silence. I stared at it on the ground, feeling intrigued, but still fairly detached. Once the echoes of the shatter stopped reverberating through the quiet kitchen, I swept it up, threw it away, and went about my day.

Then it was a binder at work that was being thrown away. I’d found myself unconsciously opening and closing the three rings, finding strange comfort in the clickclickclick. When I realized what I was doing, I looked at the binder curiously wondering, could I break those rings?

So, I tried.

With a ring braced in each hand, I pulled the ends away from each other, far past the allowed for opening until I heard a faint snap, and each of the rings hung loosely out of their assigned spaces. I took a moment to look over my handiwork, then swept is all in the trash, and then turned back to the project I was trying to finish before end of business.

After that it was a shot glass. I have a large collection of shot glasses (predictably) from all the places I’ve visited, so many in fact that friends have taken to bringing them back to me from the places they visit, too. I have about half a dozen from Atlanta, it seeming fitting that my hometown be represented in more numbers than any other city. There was one in particular I bought years ago, the painted script enscribing Atlanta, Georgia having long since worn off, with a pronounced chip in the top where I once dropped it on a granite counter after doing a Patron body shot off a friend’s stomach. I was cleaning it off when the thought came to me; I should throw this against the wall.

So, I did.

I tossed it up and caught it in my palm a few times, like a pitcher debating on what kind of pitch to send over the mound. Then I threw it clear across the room, watching it burst into a million crystalline pieces, each tinkling like pennies in a jar as they hit the floor. I stood there for a minute, confused at myself, but feeling mildly exhilarated. Then, I cleaned up the shards and went to bed.

I have been breaking things. But I’m not entirely sure why.