Katie Tenney

This story was published in the Anthology of Short Stories by Young Americans when I was seventeen.

http://www.anthologyofpoetry.com/about-us/about-the-forum/anthology-of-short-stories-by-young-americans.html

 

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I didn't know that my heart could be shattered so: into so many microscopic, miniscule pieces.

 

Metaphorically speaking.

 

Sort of.

 

[]

 

When he and I had been dating for a while, I gave him my heart—a small red glass necklace from Europe. It had been a Christmas present, and he knew how much it meant to me.

He grinned broadly, and slipped it on, silently promising to keep it super safe.

That was the only heart it applied to, I guess.

 

[]

 

The thing I remember most about that day was wondering what I had done wrong; what I had done to deserve this.

The day had started off innocently enough—he kissed me goodbye, and I waved to him until his car was out of sight—the usual.

I went inside and started typing on that Great American novel I promised both of us that I would write.

And, per usual, nothing came.

The day continued in a similar fashion, right up until 2:36 PM, in which they called.

 

[]

 

I thought it was a joke at first—it happened on the news all the time, but just…never to me.

I even turned on the news to see them covering the accident.

It wasn't like there was a truck or something involved—another rather extraordinarily ordinary case of drunk driving.

I'm not sure how that was the first thing I thought. I should've thought of my husband lying cold and dead on a morgue slab, but, instead, all I could do was wonder why it was being broadcast on TV, and my husband was among the "three pronounced dead."

I dropped the phone, and (like a bad movie I couldn't get out of) I fell to my knees, and just stared straight at the TV.

I wanted to kill someone.

The person who killed my husband.

The person who was broadcasting the most god-awful pain I'd ever felt.

My husband, for just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

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Hospitals are the worst place on earth, above only their morgues.

I stared blankly at the covered body, and I was unable to process anything else.

I couldn't tell if it was my husband or not, but, truthfully, I think a small part of me held out hope that they were wrong.

 

[]

 

It was him.

I threw up.

The box taunted me at my feet, and, right on top, in a little zip-lock bag, was a thin silver chain, and billions of red glass fragments.

For the first time, I broke down.