Authored by Chris Mast. Copyright 1997.

Shattered

By Chris Mast

Michael glanced into the window of the room, looking at all the tubes that formed a highway in and out of the body and seemed to hold the broken vessel together. He had to swallow sour tasting bile as he watched a nurse come in and pull even more blood from the arm. Michael was surprised he had any left.
It had been everywhere; splattered on the street, in the grass, on the car. Nothing seemed untouched by red, nothing.
He watched the body shake and convulse, racked with coughing that he knew came from blood in the lungs. The small hum of a machine was the only reminder that this man was alive, it was the only thing that kept him so. Michael ventured out a hand against the small glass on the door, hoping to touch him and see some sign of life, some redemption in sight of what had happened. Nothing.
He got up and looked out the window of the hospital lounge. The only thing he could see was the lights of cars that passed by, Flittering, coming fast and fading faster, the lights came and went as fast as doctors from the room.
A rush of red hot anger once again threatened to overwhelm Michael's actions, but it was quickly drowned by the cold and pitiful sense of hopelessness that had become the epitome of the last three days. Everywhere Michael looked there was no hope on faces, no happiness in eyes. He was beginning to think that there was nothing positive in this building, or the rest of anywhere, for that matter.
He dared a glance back at the body of the victim, and knew that the tears would come if he even thought about what would happen. They did, flowing off his face and catching the light, sending him back.

II.
Crying seemed to open the cracked door of his memories, plunging him into things he didn't want to relive.
He did so every time a family member would come out of the room and stare. Every time he heard the report over the radio.
The thing he remembered most was the glass. How the headlights had made the thousands of shattered pieces shine as they dashed across the road. Little stars they seemed like, as he saw them in slow motion, explode outward from the dash and skip across the highway. He remembered how he had seen the steering wheel come up to greet him; how his face was warm. He knew he had broken his nose. The warm salty blood had greeted his lips after the world stopped turning.
The lights, red, orange, blue, all mixing and coalescing, had thrown him back into reality.
Stay alive!
We'll get you out, hang in there!
Keep your eyes open!!
Oh, but he didn't want to. He wanted to hug the darkness that promised peace and quiet. The light ruined all that. All the quiet and peace and repose, gone.
He remembered the pain. He should, he guessed. You don't flip over time and time again and come out unscathed. He had felt...relief? Relieved; a few bruises and a broken nose. He remembered the denial, the numbness, as he saw the other vehicle, nothing recognizable. He remembered working his way over, pushing aside uniforms.
Michael winced anew from the memory of the cries, his body twisted the way the arm was twisted back out of the driver's side window; he winced the way the faces of the onlookers did as he remembered the blood.

III.
The dull pain of reality threaded its way back into his skull, and Michael knew that he had stopped crying. The tears never lasted long anymore. The tears didn't protect from the pain of anything anymore. From the pain of being struck by the mother, the pain of being looked as a monster by the daughter. He had stopped apologizing.
No... he knew he was to blame for the near death of a father, a loving husband, the life of an entire family. He had relived the reality over and over for the past three days. He couldn't even forgive himself anymore.
Michael could hear the machines mocking him; the slight beep, beep, beep of the machines that signaled to Michael that the man was still living. In agony. An agony he had caused and was not going to be forgiven for.
If only the machines would stop for a while. For simple silence. A silence in which Michael could tell him how utterly sorry he was for making him go through this. For staying unharmed while he was lying in a white and pure coffin.
White. Michael remembered the grim mask of professionalism on the white clad doctor's face. The white had told the family that their father, their life, would be in this place forever; useless, broken. Michael remembered the urge to slap that mask right off his face, but it wouldnÕt fix anything. He knew it was only because of the blame he heaped on himself.
The blame that never would leave, like he would never leave that room. It would follow him around for the rest of his life, even when he escaped into sleep.

IV.

The shadows in MichaelÕs dreams were splintered as a stabbing gleam of light pierced his eyelids. A metal cart, catching the light. White uniforms. Orders, loud, barking.
The scene pushed Michael into a memory he didn't want to remember anymore. The scene of paramedics rushing the man into the emergency room while he nursed a broken nose and listened to the same frantic cries the filled the air now.
Michael was rushed out of the way, just like before. He had to sit back and wait, the hardest thing to do, just like before. Michael had fallen asleep in a lobby chair, his bed for the last four days, just like before.
He watched, not really observing, suspended in time. He looked into the face of a nurse. She told a uniform that the man was still alive; the machines would still beep. Michael caught the arm of the nurse. She looked at him; he was a stranger to these eyes. Someone unwanted.
Michael let a splinter of his grief show through his eyes. Her mask shattered. She shook her head. He ventured a request. She looked around, a reminder of the request to keep Michael away from the body shattered. She opened the door, slipping Michael in.
Beep, be-beep, beep, be-beep. The fluctuation told Michael the man was instant closer to losing his life. Michael was an instant closer to losing his soul.
Be-beep, beep, be-beep, be-beep...
Michael's feeling were shrouded over in a renew of guilt and anger. Once again he had to battle the faces of the family, yelling at him, screaming at him. They had shattered all trace of peace within him, They had never offered a hand of forgiveness.
They had wanted him to shatter, for as long as he remembered these days. They wanted him to spread across the highway in as many pieces as the glass had been.
Beep, be-beep, beep, be-beep...
Michael lost the battle again, and was forced to let the hate, fear and anger and hopelessness segment him, torment him.
Michael knew the man would never know how sorry he was for doing this to him. He walked over to the bed, wanting to say something, knowing it would do no good, and turned away, shattered.
Beep, be-beep, be-beep, beep...
Day would turn into night would turn into weeks would turn into months would turn into years. Shattered. Anger would turn into hate would turn into fear would turn into anger would turn into death. Shattered. Nothing would help, nothing would forgive, nothing would mend.
Except the hand that now grabbed his arm, and the eyes that now looked up at him for the first time in four days.

Michael looked down at the victim, the eyes that had for the first time in forever opened. The arm that grabbed him was weak, but in its grasp Michael was held rigid.
Beep, be-beep, beep, be-beep...
The arm tugged downward and Michael lowered himself to the man's face. Withered and pale lips whispered something incomprehensible. He looked into the eyes and shook his head, telling him softly he couldnÕt understand. The eyes gave back soft yet defeated acceptance, but at the same time communicating the utmost urgency. He wanted to tell Michael something...
Beep, be-beep, beep, be-beep...
Michael lowered his ear to the mouth, which once again tried to communicate to tell him something. Incomprehensible. Michael squeezed the arm and shook his head. The man couldn't move. He couldn't communicate. There must be some way to piece together the shattered communication lines.
Bee..., Beep, Beepbeep, bee..., beep, be-beep,,,
Michael gasped, looking at the machine and then down at the man. Fluctuation. Death was closer.
Bee..., be-bee..., beep, beep, bee-beep...
The man blinked, the arm squeezed acknowledgment. Michael shook his head, refusing to believe this. So close...it was accepted. But the eyes told him something else, they told him he was not forgiven, he still owed the man something, something more than a simple explanation.
...Beep, Be-beep, bee..., beepbeep...
The man shuttered and convulsed. Michael gasped, dashing to get a uniform. The arm was quicker. The answer came in a tight squeeze of the arm and a look of peace.
...be-beep...beep...beep....bee...
NO! He was not going to let him go! There had to be some other way of redemption, forgiveness. Some other way to piece together what was shattered.
How do you piece together one life by ending another?
...bee...beep........beep....
......no..........please...............
........beep..........bee.......bebee...........
....I won't let.......please......let me.........
...........beee.............beep...........
........be........beep.........beepbeepbe-beepbe-beep--
beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
..............................................
If only the machines would stop for a while. For simple silence. A silence in which Michael could tell him how utterly sorry he was for making him go through this.

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