Demitrius lived a lifetime within his mirrored confinement. He knew nothing else but the six walls that enclosed him. Disillusioned, he felt grateful for the life he had. For a time, he could still look upon his countenance and see all that was good, but with years passing, his reflection grew dull. He withered away, fortnight upon fortnight. He marked every flaw in the reflection that he could never escape. While Demitrius sees only truth in his prison walls, they pervert his features: distorting his perception of himself. Where there is beauty he sees himself foul; where there is strength, he can only comprehend his own failings. Over the years, he had fallen in love with this torure, like a hostage enamored with their captor. 

One day, he felt a foreign feeling across the back of his neck, like the air was moving. He scoured the box to identify the source. To his horror, his eyes fell upon the miniscule shard that had abandoned the pane, leaving an aperture. Demitrius cringed at the opening, as if its discovery alone was a treasonous sin. For a moment, his fear kept him away. Pressed against the opposite side of the box, he faced his temptress. The curiosity was too strong, and he moved toward it with childlike timidity. 

Through the meager hole, he could not see much, however, he could see a color, similar to his eyes, but more vibrant, and much larger. Demitrius looked upon an alien world, one that he had been surrounded by his whole existence. He admired the lush green trees, standing tall like giants, painted against a clear sky. Leaves of more shades than he had ever known clung to the branches. A soft breeze brushed against them, trying to drag them away. What he saw were yellow and green plains cascading across the landscape, but he did not have the vocabulary to define his visions. Beneath the swaying blades, the ground resembled the shade of his hair, yet much deeper and richer in pigment. He looked upon flecks of color throughout the field that matched the hue of his lips. It was serene and untouched, but its emptiness made it rather sad. Such majesty is meant to be appreciated, but the land Demitrius gazed upon was vacant and lifeless. 

The earthy scent of the outside world cleansed his troubled mind as it filled his narrow dwelling. With every breath he took, Demitrius felt as if he was breathing for the first time. Suddenly, his mind returned to his prior worries. He was not worthy of beholding the treasures in the forbidden lands before him. 

As he trembled under the weight of his disgrace, he noticed a small shape emerging from the gap. Demitrius climbed back over to the hole to watch the tiny snail ascend toward him. Helping it past the sharp glass, Demitrius lifted the snail inside. It slowly glided across his hand as he admired it. He was amazed by this creature. It was so delicate; he bore it in his palms as he would a piece of porcelain. 

“You must be strong, little one,” Demitrius murmured, “toting that shell all your life.”

Letting the creature slide off his hand and make its trek back to the earth, Demitrius felt the hysteria ensue. The marred spirit far below his beaten exterior battled within.

With eyes shut, Demitrius felt more vulnerable than he had ever felt before. Gentle tears slipped down his cheeks. I do not need this. I long for a more fulfilling life than this captivity provides. I do not wish to be here anymore.

His eyes opened to see the world, and he was taken aback. On the ground, he saw the small square of shattered glass surrounding himself. His excitement propelled him forward. He dove into the land taking in deep inhales of freedom. Specks of dark mud wedged beneath his fingernails as he clung to the earth like he was thanking it. Tears dripped from his eyes to unite with the dew he laid upon. 

Once he pulled himself up, Demitrius turned to look upon the life he was leaving. He froze. With terror brewing inside himself, he beheld an appalling sea of glass prisons. So many lives marched the solemn road he once tread.

 Passion and fury boiled beneath his chest. He scoured the terrain until he stood up with a large stick in hand. Running up to the row of boxes, he struck. Cracks spread like spider webs, extending across each pane of glass. Flying down the line, Demitris swung at every box. Dizzy with emotion he stumbled along until he could no longer stand, crumbling before the final box. He panted heavily, releasing the stubborn ferocity stuck within himself. 

He studied the walls from the outside. Dim and cloudy, they must have blocked all light from entering. Reaching upward, he tapped on the surface. Small cracks branched out until a single fragment fell from the box. He could hear the faint gasp from inside before he whispered to the stranger, “Do not fret, the fear is inevitable. When you are ready, there is more outside this box. ”

Once sounds of movement emerged from within the cell, Demitrius turned to the horizon. With the branch he held, he fashioned a walking stick.