Her red heels click on the smooth tile floor. The tile shatters like glass under her mad, rushing body. She ‘s angry and no one can stop her rage. Her delicate nails claw at the portraits and her graceful fingers smash a vase to the ground in a million solitary pieces. Paper grows wings and flies across the room.

Tears drop to the ground slowly and shatter because she cries tears of glass and they cut her pale skin. What can money do for me, you ask? You don’t want money or to wear the black suits that make women seem professional. You don’t want the glass ceilings and the expensive furniture. Why should it matter?

Because I’m a lawyer; a lawyer everyone needs to get their cases:to know their stories. I don’t want this life anymore, she says, but she still does because she wipes the glass tears and the blood, she cleans up the solitary pieces of glass, and she keeps the portrait on the wall to remind herself of what she did.