Many different people have extraordinary different ways of coping with boredom. For an entire month, I staved off that monster by exploring the insides of the purses of my friends and family.

I asked permission first, of course, boredom is never an excuse for rudeness.

And like manners of coping with boredom, insides of purses are shockingly different.

My mother's purse was full of the scents of the world. I would take one out, and another would replace it. I had always assumed that it had been perfumes, but I learned differently.

My sister's purse was filled with leaves. I pulled them off and found that the tree that grew outside our childhood home had been stripped bare of its green covering.

My friend's purse was filled with ink. I poured it out onto the sidewalk and looked at the collection of words and images that the ink spilled into. I never figured out the meaning, but my friend vanished the next day.

Yesterday, I looked inside my own purse, and saw glass from a broken mirror filling it. I tried to put all the pieces back together, but I only cut my hands. I looked at my reflection in the shards of the mirror and saw a broken figure.

I can't remember if the figure was me.

Author note: This is the first story I'm uploading here, if you have any criticism I'd welcome it! I wrote this a year ago.