It shattered
with a resonant ring, and shards of glass blasted in every
direction.
He closed his eyes as he sailed to the ground and landed in a
pile of glass between his wife's unmoving legs.
Then, perfect silence.
He lay there for a moment before opening his eyes, grateful at
once that his vision had escaped the shrapnel. The first thing he
saw was blood. He panicked, and glass crunched beneath his arms
as he raised himself up on his elbows. He was aware of many stabs
along the undersides of his arms and blood started gushing from
his palms.
Then he saw her. He quickly brushed the largest broken pieces
away with a folded box. He leaned close to her face, squeezed her
cheeks between his bloody fingers. "Greta," he shouted. "Wake
up!" He looked from her face to her chest for evidence of life,
pressed her stomach, tried to make her breathe. He squeezed her
lips between her fingers and put his lips on hers and blew, felt
nothing in return. Had he killed her? He let out an agonized
groan, how could this be happening when everything was back to
the way they had planned?
He crawled up between her legs. He pulled her head to his chest,
and with his other hand he searched for her pulse.
"Oh Greta," he moaned, gazing with disbelief at the fragments.
Where was her pulse?
"I'll fix it," he whispered, probing for her heartbeat with his
bloody fingertips, all the while staring with bedazzled eyes at
the brilliant shards twinkling in the light, searching in vain
for one that might contain the etchings of the salmon fish.
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