Page 10 of All The Broken Pieces: Vol. 1

Chapter 10

The window is open, and a white curtain with lacy trim billows at the edge of the sill. It’s a warm night. The scent of jasmine sweeps into the bedroom. I’m tangled in the sheets, laying on my back, straining to hear the noise again. Downstairs. There was a sound. I’m so tired and emotionally spent. Do I care if I get robbed?

My eyelids are heavy and weariness clings to my sweaty skin. Emptiness fills the house. The sounds of floorboards settling and creaking have fallen silent. I shift in my bed, shoving the covers between my legs, and then flatten my pillow. No one is downstairs, but the hairs on my arms raise. I can’t get the sinking feeling out of the pit of my stomach. The house, this little cape, is empty. I’m the only one here, but—crap. I can’t leave it alone. I can’t act like I didn’t hear it. Or maybe I can. It’s the middle of the night.

Groaning unladylike expletives, I shove my face into my pillow and lay there, facedown. I count, listening. One. Two. The truth is, after all this time, my heart still jumps into high gear if I hear the faintest sound. Like it’s doing now. Three. Four. Five. As if the accident just happened. It didn’t just happen. The problem is that my brain recognizes that nearly three years have passed since that horrible, godforsaken day, but my heart has no clue.

My heart plays tricks on me, making me feel a tug in one direction down a random street, past the bakery, until I see a man, tall, trim, with a dusting of dark stubble on his jaw. For a moment, I think it’s him—my husband—but then he turns. It’s never him. And I know why, but my heart is utterly confused, drunk with hope.

So, I shove that part of my mind into a mental closet, remove all sharp objects, and let her rant about whatever crazy crap she wants. As long as it doesn’t spill into my head, my heart can have at it in the closet.

That sound. What is it? It’s light, metallic almost—but not. It has to be sounds of the house settling. It makes weird noises when it’s too hot or too cold.

Gripping the pillow tightly, I push it away and sigh, sitting up. I run a hand through my dark hair, shoving back the curl by my face that’s turned gray. I should dye it but I’m not the salon type. Truth be told, I’ve lost too much weight, erasing a decent pair of hips and a nice set of tits in the process. Now I’m flat girl, coming and going. I’m Flat Stanley. It’s that bad. But I can’t seem to make myself care.

I tug my hair into a ponytail that sits low at the base of my neck before pulling it over my shoulder. I swear, it almost sounds like wood scraping on concrete. It’s so soft, but I hear it. I glance over at the cologne still on the other nightstand. Ferro. Zach had to have that for Christmas. Sometimes I spray it on the sheets because I can’t stand that his scent is gone from the house. It’s been too long. So the bottle remains.

I take a huge gulp of air and wish I refilled my Xanax prescription. No one knows what I’ve lived through, not even the shrink. It’s not a common occurrence to lose your husband and best-friend within a few months. In fact, my husband’s accident was so weird, they thought I did something to cause it initially. Bastards. As if I’d blow half my face off and risk being crushed in the debris.

But still. People whisper. The fact that our relationship was strained makes those mutterings worse. The overwhelming desire to slam my fist into the reporters’ faces is hard to control. I never fought back when Zach was alive. That part of me backed away. Zach always took care of things. I let him.

Now things are different. If I don’t fight back, well, I wouldn’t still be here. Anger fuels me, moving me through the minutes of the day. If there’s a reporter downstairs, I swear I’ll lose it. There’s no intentionality in my life, in the person I’m becoming. But I don’t care if I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror anymore. Surviving is paramount. I’ll figure out who I am when the dust settles. Until then, I’m lost in the fog trying to find a way out.

Suddenly there’s a loud CRACK that carries up to my window. Glass shatters downstairs. I’m sure of it. Jumping from the bed, I pad across the room in a threadbare T shirt and knit shorts. They don’t match. Before passing the closet in a rush, I reach inside and grab a wooden baseball bat that once belonged to Zach.

My feet hit the wooden steps in rapid succession, slamming down hard against the floor. One hand barely touches the railing, and I’ve got the bat clutched in the other. When I get to the upper landing, I glance around. Nothing. No one. Shoving my hand through my hair, I make an exasperated sound and stomp down the rest of the steps, annoyed.

Amber lights glow softly, illuminating the base of the staircase, but the foyer is dark. I’m perched, still standing on the bottom step, hand on the banister, eyes sweeping the room. The mahogany wooden floor has a crimson glow in the moonlight. There’s no tall nefarious guy in a black mask. I almost wish there was.

Gingerly lifting my leg, I place it down on the floor, and stop. That’s when I feel it—a warm breeze. It tickles my ankles as it catches the tiny hairs on my unshaved legs. My spine straightens as I lift my face slowly, back toward the front door. Every hair on my body stands on end as my stomach tightens. My fingers turn white as I strangle the bat in my hand.

The front door is surrounded by glass panes, each one hand-made by an artist I found in Brooklyn. Each pane is no taller than my palm and hand-blown with the palest kiss of blue. I commissioned them when my shrink, Dr. Patel, suggested a project to help distract me from my heartache. Making over this old house seemed like a good idea when we were first married. The little cape is a block from the canal in Lindenhurst, a small hamlet on Long Island.

Zach and I always wanted to live here, close to his family, near the train, and not too far from Manhattan. We dreamed of rescuing this old house that had been boarded up since the hurricane ripped through a few years back. Back then, it’d been a dream. Now it’s a lonely nightmare and I’m not entirely certain how I got here.

The scent of roses fills my head as I creep toward the door, slithering through the darkness with my heart in my throat. Someone is there, in the shadows. Squaring my shoulders, I stride swiftly toward the massive front door and shift the grip on my bat. The sheen of the black lacquer is unmarred. The antique brass door pull is still intact. There’s no sign of entry. The hairs on my arms stand on end. I turn slowly, pivoting, scanning, waiting to see the intruder.

I call out into the air. “Shoot me or get the hell out. I’ve got work in the morning.” My voice cracks, not with fear, but with annoyance.

I press my lower lip upward so tightly that my teeth nick my skin. The gentle creaks of the old stairs re-settling are my only response. Another warm breeze licks my bare ankles before it catches the hem of my gown, making it flitter around my ankles. I glance at the door, leerily and stride toward it. My eyes fixate on a splotch of darkness where an artesian blue pane of glass once resided. Now there is only a black patch of darkness. The crunch of glass under my foot hits my ears as fragments of glass sink into my flesh. I swear under my breath and step away. Pieces of thick glass lay on the dark wooden planks, making them difficult to see until I’m on top of them.

The glass pane is shattered with shards lining the foyer floor. Someone broke one of the panes. Was this a botched break in? I think about grabbing my phone to call it in, but decide against it. A broken window could be a kid throwing rocks. That’s happened before and the cops don’t like coming out for that kind of thing. Zach wouldn’t call if he were here, so I don’t. That’s when I see it. A huge, dark, hunk of metal, the size of my palm, is laying on the floor.

Before I hobble toward it, I balance awkwardly against the wall and pluck the glass from my foot. After I’ve gotten most of it, I gimp along on my heel, smearing a crimson trail of blood in my wake. The truth is, the pain feels good. I’ll never admit it, but it’s better than feeling helpless, better than crushing grief that lingers on for days on end.

Plucking the culprit from the shadows, I straighten and hold the heavy thing to the light. It’s a piece of lead with a dolphin in a circle and the number 4. It’s a weight from a dive belt. Rubbing my thumb over the dolphin, I feel something scratched onto the back. When I flip it over, the smooth side of the weight has been marred, the smooth surface gone. Deep gouges spell out a single word. A warning.

STOP.