This was the eighth shard of glass that she had taken, the soft clinks of the objects on the similarly small glass table the only thing piercing through the silence of the nothingness that surrounds her. Each soft sound made by her hold on the tweezers hid the ticking of the clock, seemingly drowning the incoming morning in a neverending cycle of metal and glass. Not that there was anything wrong with that, she deduced, metal and glass was everything she needed. In her almost twenty years of living, she had finally learned that here was nothing more calming than hearing the soft sound of glass gently hitting glass, the metal that made them meet making a high-pitched harmony of whisper-like quality. There was nothing more... joyful.
Ah, yes, the various vases livening her home were also decorated using broken glass - the small pieces stuck in the plaster that held them together. Some glass shards looked mirror-like, others transparent, others of various colors. But all of them different, brittle and jagged, imperfect but unique. No single shard was identical to another.
And all of them were beautiful.
It was just as the last piece had hit the surface of the table that she took a deep breath and let the wind hear her words. "It's done." She said, her voice soft and light, before she released the metal tweezers from her hand and stood up from the chair she was sitting.
As she turned her back and walked away, deciding to make herself a cup of coffee, she let the shards of glass slowly dot the pristine white table in an undeniable shade of red. The human head that was left on the table, almost unrecognizeable with various holes and cuts of glass at the forehead, the cheeks, and everywhere else, continued to coat the surface in red - highlighting the tips of long black hair that crowned it in the bold color. The body where it had been initially connected to was already slumped on a chair beside hers, but to that, she paid no attention. She had no use for it anymore - the big and sharp mirror shard stuck straight at its chest enough clue that she was done with it. She can dispose of it later.
Looking back one more time at her handiwork as the blood began dripping from the table, the female smiled, welcoming the coming sunrise with a sense of happiness.
Of joy.
She had seen it all, felt it all, and had even had a familiar metal pierce through her frame. But nothing will rival the feeling of glass, such a brittle object, draw blood from the depths of the human body. She was no longer Park Sooyoung - two-faced daughter of an underappreciated artist - who was an art critic by day and the devil by night.
She was Joy, and her own comes from the shards of everybody else's pain.
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