Chapter Thirty-Three – Shattered Glass
1106 Words
The door closed behind her with a heavy, hollow thud that echoed through the house like a warning. Elena stood in the hallway, her hand still gripping the keys so tightly the edges bit into her palm. For a long moment she didn’t move. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. The framed photo of Kevin on the wall seemed to watch her, his smile frozen, his eyes alive with the careless joy of youth.
Her scarf slid from her shoulders onto the floor. She left it there, stepping out of her shoes without even noticing. Each step up the staircase felt weighted, as though she were climbing into another world.
In the bathroom the mirror was merciless. Her reflection startled her — red-rimmed eyes, hair clinging in damp strands, her lips pale and trembling. Yet what struck her most was not the sight but the memory: the heat of his breath at her ear, the way his hand had traced her body as if he owned it. The echo of his words: Your body doesn’t lie.
Her hands shook as she turned on the shower. The spray thundered down, hot, relentless. She stepped beneath it without caring that her undergarments still clung to her skin. At first she just stood there, head bowed, letting the water cascade down her back. Then, as if summoned by memory, her hands rose to her throat.
She rubbed hard, pressing until the skin reddened. Down across her collarbones, over her ribs, along her hips where she had felt his knuckles graze. She scrubbed as though the water could erase what lingered beneath her skin.
“Get out,” she whispered hoarsely, voice cracking. Her fingers clawed harder. “Get off me. Get out.”
The more she scrubbed, the deeper the memory dug in. She remembered Richard’s laugh when he used to kiss her neck, teasing her for being ticklish. She remembered Kevin’s small hands tugging her fingers as a child, telling her that her hands were “the warmest in the world.” Now those same places burned under her own furious touch.
Her forehead pressed against the cool tile. Sobs tore through her chest, violent and raw. The sound bounced back at her from the small space, filling her ears until she couldn’t breathe. She sank down, curling against the wall, knees pulled tight. The water beat against her back like punishment, but nothing drowned out the shame.
When she finally rose, her skin was flushed, her lips trembling. She shut off the spray and wrapped herself in a towel, stumbling into the bedroom.
The room was too neat. Too calm. Too false.
Her eyes fell on the framed photo of herself and Richard, smiling in evening clothes at a gala, his hand on her waist. Rage clawed up her throat. She seized it and hurled it against the wall. Glass shattered into glittering fragments.
Another frame: Kevin at twelve, holding a baseball bat, grin wide and proud. For a heartbeat she clutched it, her chest tightening. Then she screamed, a sound that ripped from her throat, and flung it down. Shards scattered, his frozen smile fractured on the floor.
The scream unleashed her. She tore through the room, pulling books from shelves, hurling them one after another. Drawers slammed, spilling clothes onto the floor. A lamp toppled, the bulb bursting with a sharp crack. The coverlet ripped from the bed, fluttering down in a heap.
A wedding photo slid from a drawer. Elena stared at it, her younger self radiant in lace, Richard’s arm steady around her shoulders. For a moment she froze, the image holding her hostage. Then fury broke the spell. With a guttural cry she hurled it against the wall. The glass exploded, raining tiny fragments across the carpet. One caught her palm, slicing the skin. A bright line of blood welled.
She didn’t stop. She raged until her body betrayed her, until her chest heaved and her arms shook. “I hate you!” she screamed into the wreckage. “I hate what I’ve become!”
The sound broke her. She collapsed onto the ruined bed, surrounded by splintered wood and glass, sobs tearing through her chest until she had nothing left.
At last she rose, dazed, and stumbled downstairs. Barefoot, leaving faint damp prints on the carpet.
The living room was serene, pristine — a cruel contrast to the chaos above. She crossed to the bar in the corner. Richard’s bar. He used to stand there on Friday nights, pouring himself whiskey into a crystal glass, swirling it like a badge of power. She had despised the smell, the way it clung to his clothes, the way it signaled distance instead of comfort.
Her hand shook as she reached into the cabinet. The bottle was still nearly full. She twisted off the cap with a jerk. No glass this time. No ritual. Just desperation.
She tipped it back. The first swallow scorched her throat, sending fire down her chest. She coughed, tears springing to her eyes, but she drank again. A second swallow. A third. The heat pooled in her stomach like molten lead.
When she slammed the bottle onto the counter, the sound echoed through the house. Her hands trembled violently, the bottle rattling against the wood.
The cabinet glass reflected her. Red-rimmed eyes, blotched cheeks, blood dripping slowly from her palm where the shard had cut her. She looked like a stranger — a woman hollowed out, desperate, dangerous.
This isn’t me, she thought, horror rising. I don’t drink like this. I don’t lose control. I don’t let patients silence me in the dark. I don’t…
But she had.
Her eyes filled again. She pressed her palms against the counter, bowing her head as though she could force the disgust out through sheer weight.
“If Kevin saw me now…” The words barely left her throat, raw and small. The image gutted her: her son walking in, seeing her with bloodied hands, hair damp, whiskey bottle at her side, a ruin in her own home.
She slid down against the counter until she sat on the floor, arms wrapped around herself. The bottle loomed above her, its amber glow taunting. She reached for it again, then froze, fingers trembling.
“I hate you,” she whispered, this time not to Vincent, not to Richard, but to the reflection staring back from the glass cabinet.
Her voice cracked on the last word. She drew her knees to her chest, rocking slightly. The sobs that followed were quieter, almost childlike.
The house stood indifferent, bearing silent witness to her unraveling.
- Writer
