Broken Glass

He wondered if this had happened because he'd dropped the glass, or if it's breaking was simply an omen, a warning. Broken glass in the morning, broken hearts at night. That was how the saying went. His grandmother had said it a lot. His mother had always turned her nose up at it. 'Shanty' she used to sneer, making sure the older woman had heard every ounce of contempt in her voice.

But Granmam had been dead right. His heart was certainty broken. So were so many others'. Oh God, how could one little body hold so much blood? The noises she had made when she tried to breathe, when she tried to talk...it triggered a low sound of horror of his own, and he closed his eyes to block out the blood on his hands and the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. He hadn't thought of it that morning, when the sun was thin and pale as the fog, but now, hours later, he remembered it and it dug at his heart cruelly, like a splinter of glass itself.

He sat splay-legged on the floor, the doorway against his back, head bowed. The tuxedo that she had said made him look so dashing was in complete disarray, the jacket gone with her into the operating room, the collar up and the bow tie undone. He was smeared with blood, none of it his, and when he was approached to be looked at himself, he had yelled until someone, he didn't remember if it was the Opera Guy--only Rosie actually knew his name, and she was too busy trying not to die to remind him-- or their boss or Maddy, and it didn't matter, just that who ever it had been had drawn the nurse away and let them know in no uncertain terms not to bother them with such things for now.  Not until they found out, until they knew one way or another. He forced his eyes open again, and stared at the dull linoleum between his feet, because when he closed his eyes he saw her again, saw her pale back and the blood that leaked through his fingers, so hot, and felt her shaking like she was going to fall apart.  He flexed his hands and the tacky feel of drying blood made his stomach churn, but there was the strange feeling that if he washed it away, he'd be killing her somehow.

Broken glass in the morning, broken hearts at night. What a damned omen. What a fucking forewarning.

His head lolled back when he heard the quiet clicking of heels on the tile floor, and he snarled dispassionately at a passing nurse. Her gait sped up, and he took a mildly perverse pleasure in that. In scaring her. Making her go away. It was the only semblance of control he'd felt since it happened. More steps, this time from inside the waiting room, made him turn his head. Maddy, all wrapped up in the Opera Guy's jacket, her eyes glassy and her cheeks streaked with bluish black mascara. She tottered over and leaned against the wall, sniffling a little and wiping it on the collar of the expensive jacket she was cocooned in.  Bossman was next, leaning against the opposite leg of the door frame. His face was pale and drawn and that long scar on the side of his face stood out in sharp relief. He hadn't stopped smoking Opera Guy paced the length of the waiting room; from some pocket he'd produced a rosary and was going over it, Caleb heard the 'Ave Maria's coming from him in a low stream. He had insisted on staying. Had cried a little bit when Maddy asked him if he wanted to leave.

Jesus, what had gone wrong? Things had been so right. It didn't seem fair. Why hadn't he seen the warning and heeded it? If he had, would she still be okay? Could it have been avoided, the way the pale dress she wore had gone so dark and wet with blood? That wet, scream-y noise of her breath...

"Doctor's coming," Maddy's voice was quiet and strained, bordering on frantic. He didn't always like her, but the sudden hope in her voice twisted at his heart. He found the energy to stand, to pull himself up and face the grim man coming towards them. Opera Guy hurried from his spot across the room, and Madison reached down for his hand, something she hadn't done since she was three. He grasped it tightly, and held his breath. There was still a chance she had made it out alive. She had done it once before, after all. But it couldn't be blocked out, it couldn't be forgotten, how that omen had slipped into his thoughts and refused to leave. Too confident in his heart and head to be just a warning now. It seemed to be a promise, an omen fulfilled. Broken glass in morning, broken hearts at night.

that awkward hello we're all supposed to give...

This is mine. I won't go to into the details right here, but am surely thrilled to be here. I intend to stick fictional-type stuff here that came from my head. In other words, stories. Mostly short ones. Also, there will probably be a healthy ammount of non-fictiony stuff. Things I think are cool and the like. We'll see.

If you've got a drink in your hand, raise it in a toast. Here's to Fictionally Delicious, and that it doesn't get neglected and die in obscurity. Cheers and all that junk!