Trigger Warning: Psychological Violence
THE WINE GLASS
There were six of us.
We all looked alike. And we were all new and thrilled about this new phase.
She was the one who chose us.
It wasn't an easy choice. She had other options, but after all we ended up going home with her.
The apartment was beautiful and huge. Meticulously decorated and planned.
Like us, there were many others around. Of different colours, types and sizes.
We were always kept together.
A maid would spend the day alone in the apartment. She did the laundry, ironed sheets and bedcovers, cleaned the dust
and glass shards.
She and her husband worked hard. They would always arrive late, around 8 PM.
She’d shower, make dinner, and choose amongst us six, one to join.
He, on the other hand, would go straight to the dinner table, where everything was already organised.
Between one bite and another, large sips of wine. Always French.
One, two, three, four, five…
In the beginning she’d also drink, with the excuse of celebrating something.
But over time, however, the wine was traded for water.
She was always on a diet.
I must have taken part in at least eight dinners. I was always at the back of the shelf, so I was rarely the first to be
Some of the others were chosen more often. Not all of them came back to tell how things had gone, though.
With time, we got used to that.
We knew that if dinner took too long, or if wine was replaced by whiskey, someone wouldn’t come back.
"I'm sorry, I love you."
In two months, there were three of us.
Those dinners I took part of always had the same outcome: one sip after the other until the French bottle was empty. And
as wine was drank, words came out a bit differently.
He talked a lot. She, a little less.
He talked loudly. She, controlled herself just to agree.
He would ask, question her, always wanting to know all the details of her day.
She’d answer calmly and softly. She’d give him attention, pour more wine, and clear the table.
She would do everything the way he liked.
At least until that day…
My ninth dinner was on a Thursday.
It was one of those chilly nights, where nothing is better than a good wine.
She thought about joining him, but was quickly reminded of her diet.
She ended up having water.
The night continued as usual: sometimes with a raised tone of voice, one or another cursing and questions he actually
didn't want to know the answer to.
By the fifth or sixth time she filled me up, things started to change.
Already a bit hot headed, he asked her to switch drinks.
And that's when she froze. After a few seconds, she put herself together and went straight to the kitchen for another
She was shaking, as she knew what was about to happen.
She poured a glass and handed it to him.
I, already set aside on the table, looked at her but didn't recognize the expression on her face.
As sips of whiskey went by, his tone increased. The taunting became more intense and she became more and more
I don't remember exactly what he was saying, but that time she didn't lower her head.
Demanded respect. Asked for affection.
As each word came out of her mouth, he’d shout a bit louder.
He called her mad, he called her names I wouldn’t dare to repeat.
He stood up abruptly, tossing the chair far away.
He threw it all to the floor. The dishes, the glass of whiskey, the bottle of wine.
I just stood there. Broken, shattered.
Just like the other three.
The other three that didn't have a chance to tell us what would go on just before the apology.
"I'm sorry, I love you."
He helped her up and took her to their room.
After that, I never saw them again.
On the next day, the employee picked up my shards and threw them away.
In two months, there were only three of us.
In two and a half months, there were only two of them left.
Sometimes, the only witness cannot speak for you.