By Kris Faatz
Roselle never knew her body could turn into glass. She still doesn’t know it the day her brother Adrian dies, when he slips free of the cat-and-mouse sickness he’s dragged since birth. “Guess I gotta go,” he says. Any other day, she’d have said it instead, tucking the hospital blanket around him, wrapping up in her own shawl of worry. Now his eyes are closed, his smile an echo of the old shit-kicker grin. “I’ll see ya, Rosie.” The sickness finally lets him go, but Roselle keeps his hand in hers until they take his body away.
The first days after, she moves along like always. Chin up, feet strong, the way she learned as a kid, when she carried herself and Adrian both because Mom couldn’t manage a sick baby. Such a sweet card; thank you so much. Eyes dry. Nothing’s hurting him now. He’d have loved those hyacinths. His favorite flower. Then, on the fifth morning, with the service over and mourners gone, and the new silence loud in her empty apartment, she wakes up to find she’s changed.
People are made of warm, supple things: muscles, veins, soft skin. But today, as the early-spring light edges across the bed, Roselle realizes that if she tries to push the covers back, her fingers will snap before they bend. The slightest jar will leave sharp-edged, gleaming pieces of herself on the sheets.
Fear bites her stomach and hisses along her limbs. No point calling out. There’s nobody to hear, and besides, if she did, what would happen to her face? She stares up at the ceiling. Around her, the light warms. The world will keep moving, time will tick along, but she’ll be trapped here until the last of feeling and sense are gone.
“Rosie.”
She hasn’t closed her eyes. The ceiling’s still up there, flat white. She can’t open her mouth, so she thinks instead, Dammit, Ade, you’re not here.
“Get up, girl. Why are you lying there?”
I can’t move.
“Only one of us is dead.” She hears him grinning that grin. Hot stuff. Shit-kicker. “So look alive, why don’tcha?”
I can’t.
“Come on.” He’s scolding now. “You can do better than this.”
No…
But now tears, hot as molten glass, roll up through her chest. They burn against her cheeks and slide into her hair. If she doesn’t sit up, she’ll drown.
Muscles and skin fight back. She feels herself splintering, fracturing and fissuring along every nerve. The hollow snap of cracking ice rings in her ears. Then she’s folded over, shattered face pressed against shattered hands, the shards of herself clinging together on the wave of loss.
“I told you, Rosie, I’ll see ya.”
She can barely hear him over the keening. When it finally stops, when the room is silent and empty again, she finds she can breathe.
She lowers her hands: she can do that too. They’ve knitted back together. New seams outline each broken piece.
The walls are creamy with sunlight. Roselle sits quiet, learning her new shape.
~~~
Kris Faatz (rhymes with skates) is a pianist and award-winning writer. Her third novel, Line Magic, was shortlisted for the Santa Fe Writers Project’s 2023 literary awards and was released by Highlander Press in 2025. Her first collection of short fiction, A Small Priceless Thing and Other Stories, was longlisted for SFWP’s 2025 literary awards and is forthcoming in 2027 from Highlander Press. Kris and her husband live in Baltimore and enjoy hiking, gardening, and serving as staff to three cats. Visit her online at www.krisfaatz.com.