My cupboard turned bedroom screamed, unexpected! The windowless space was only large enough to hold a desk, my bed, and the shelf above my bed with my Irn Bru collection. Each empty glass bottle promised 25p if I took them to the corner shop. To swap 4 of them would be enough for a bru with 5 pence for my pocket.

At night, with the dim light that came under the crack of the door I would look up at my hoard. Observing the stoic man on the logo silently shouldering the weight on top of him.

Strong as Girders.

But they never got traded. Whenever I needed to stay in my room, I would count them. £7.25 of quick cash in case of the worst.

Today Dad was at ‘work’, Mum was at smoking, my brothers were old enough to be at ‘out’, and I was lying on my bed when, like plastic washing up on the beach, an idea came to my mind.

What would happen if I threw a bottle against the wall as hard as I could?

Already the glass neck was choking in my hand. It was heavy, as though full.

Strong as Girders.

On auto-pilot I stood. Pulling my right arm back I felt a great dredging of my heart. An Olympic shriek unearthed from my throat as I released.

The neck left my clammy hand with a moist rip. Carried by my yell, the spinning bottle arced through the air, set to take on new form as it struck the wall.

The shriek rang in my ear, or maybe I was still screaming. It seemed as though my cage had turned into an expanse. I wanted to run, to smash through the far wall and break into shards. Let the sea waves wash away my roughness, until one day a scavenger puts my pieces into a toy kaleidoscope.

But, in its bid for freedom the bottle lit perfectly on the blue screw cap. Dropping with a disappointing thud in its unfortunate entirety. I swallowed my yell back inside and buried it. A large dent, with a small blue scuff, in my tiny room was the only result of my notion.

The industrial-strength glass showed almost no sign of abuse. The only sign was a small white plaster mark where the cap had hit the wall. No shopkeeper would see it unless I pointed it out. I traced my finger in the dent, pressed on it like a bruise. The bottle went back into the bank.

Made in Glasgow said the label.

Men who had built ships now made glass that could contain the storms their vessels used to weather. This couldn’t be broken by a kid. No chance.

Strong as fucking Girders.

Under questioning the next day I explained that this had been an experiment. I had wanted to see what would happen. They shouted about the cost of repairs to the wall. But it was forgotten by the end of the week.

It would be years before anything in our house shattered. ■

Christian Weir is a new writer, keen to share stories that fly you away for a few moments.

Medium: medium.com/@weir.christian