By Miranda Stork
Claire stared in horror at the shattered glass. A shard of it slipped from her hands, collapsing to the tiled floor with a hollow clang. A single, shaky breath escaped her lips, the only sound in the calm living room. Cars rumbled by outside, a distant sound through the windows.
She closed her eyes tightly, and tried to ignore the feel of the wooden floorboards digging into her knees. If I don’t look, he isn’t there. He isn’t there. He’s still at work.
But she knew he was there. Still and cold, like his heart. Well, like his heart had once been.
Claire hadn’t meant to do it. Her hands still trembled from where she had held the shard of glass, a single rivulet of scarlet liquid running along the lines of her palm. Her heart thumped against her ribcage, trying its hardest to break free.
The radiator gurgled in the corner, making her jump, and snap out of her reverie. Claire knew she had to turn around. She had to. She had to be sure.
Turning slowly, her jeans making a scuffling sound on the bare floor; she was greeted with the sight of her dead husband. Her abusive, sadistic, angry husband. Who had tried to hit her just one too many times, and had shattered the mirror in their living room instead.
Claire had took her chance. Lost herself as he had done so many times.
And now he really had hit her for the last time.
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