Dave's POV
The world got a little swimmy for a second, the bright lights of the party blurring into a haze. My knees felt weak, so I just dropped onto the fancy chair behind me. The red on my hand wasn't wine anymore. It was mine, welling up thick and dark between my fingers where the glass was buried.
Sheila was there in a heartbeat, her face all pale and panicked. "Dave, stop it. Just let go," she pleaded, her voice shaky. Her hands, those perfect, manicured hands I'd dreamed about for years, wrapped around my bloody fist. She tried to pry my fingers open, her touch so gentle it made me want to scream.
It just made me hold on tighter. The glass bit deeper, a sharp, clean pain that was nothing, nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. This was the only thing that felt real.
"
