Shattered Glass (Short Story)

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Shattered Glass

I see a quick flash of white, as sudden as a bolt of lightning and I turn away quickly before my curiosity invaded my thoughts. But I am too late and I turn to follow the epicentre of the flash, trying to avoid stepping of the broken glass.

I am not walking on a street. I am walking on homes. Lives. Windows. Hearts. Doors.

I am walking on the debris of the tsunami.

I am not walking on the flat ground of my hometown, where the blistering heat leaves me breathless, or where the cool relief of wind leaves me calm.

I am not walking on lad. I am walking on the pieces of my life. Small everyday pieces that I never noticed, but small every day pieces that I will never appreciate. The pieces that will never come back and re-join to become one.

When I reach the source of the flash, I see a photograph, framed in shattered glass and chipped in occasional places. They told me not to pick anything that did not belong to me. They told me not to take off my mask. They told me I am precious as one of the few survivors of this town.

But my life is not precious. It may have been a week ago, when I was normal. Normal, but I had him. Had.

The photo shows a family, and I carefully remove it from the frame to study it closer without scratching my fingers. A teenage girl. A mother. A father.

I wonder who in the photo is alive. I hope that they were all dead or all alive. It hurt to be the only survivor, welcomed in a strange world with no home and no family. Disaster.

I pocket the photo with no reason, but my eye catches something hidden inside the back of the frame, tucked behind where the family photo was. This is also another photo, this time of a girl, the same teenager from the family photo, and a boy. They are clearly sweethearts, with passion. The Passion with heartache brewing on the photograph. And right in the corner Tori *heart* Akira.

And I desperately hope that they will meet in the afterlife or destructed earth. Because no one deserves the pain I am facing right now.

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