Broken pieces of glass are hard to put back together. It’s easier to sweep the pieces up and then throw them away. Somehow, I’d learned that long ago. But I still can’t shake that feeling that there will always be those little bits of glass that are always left behind. Like an eternal memento of the perfection that was shattered. It’s hard to get rid of those left over fragments. Nearly impossible. Because they’re lodged deep within your heart. Deep within your thoughts. They leave memories that give off the appearance of scars, rather than home recorded film reels or daguerreotype photographs of everlasting smiles. 

I don’t know if it’s my cynical view on the world that made me think about things like it. As I stared at the boy lying in front of me, I didn’t know exactly what to think. His blood, it was a dark crimson, tainting his fair skin. The blood was slowly sliding down his face like fine red wine spilling onto white silk. I’d live with this image forever.

I fell to my knees in front of the boy and I pressed my hands on the floor. Shards of broken glass that penetrated my palms and knees felt like nothing at all. But this was all real, even though I didn’t want it to be. It’s just something I would have never imagined to happen. I would give anything to wake up in a bed  right next to him. The first thing I would see was his smiling face and his eyes...eyes that always made me feel like "everything was going to be okay."

There'd be no more of that.