Shattered

The room was dimly lit, befitting the seriousness of the situation at hand. Isabelle lay on the bed, her arm stretched across her eyes in an attempt to shield herself from the brutal force of reality. It was deathly silent except for the sound of her own heartbeat reverberating like thunder in her ears. Occasionally, a muffled sob issued forth, its owner attempting, albeit unsuccessfully, to submerge the array of emotions embodied in his cloaked cry.

Archer. She loved the man dearly and felt his pain more than he would ever know. Still, she couldn't help but grit her teeth in irritation at the sound of his muted sobs. For the love of Almighty God, would he never stop? His heartbroken, stifled cries were going to be her undoing. It was more than she could bear. “Have I not already borne enough?” she thought, noting the sharp stab of the irony in the question.

There was a movement of hands on the wall's clock, a resounding click to mark the ominous, late hour. At the slight sound, Isabelle removed her arm from her eyes and peered over at it. Was it already midnight? It seemed as though only mere moments ago it had been seven forty-three in the evening. Would she ever look at 7:43 on a clock again in the same way? The answer was 'no', for it was without a doubt she would always remember the mark of time when fate swept in like a hurricane to drastically lay siege to her ordinary life.

Isabelle stole a glance at Archer and immediately regretted it. He stood in the corner of the room, learning against the wall as if for support. His body was like a limp rag, as though there was not much life left in him. Despite his wearied appearance, he watched her with a keen intensity. If by chance there was any small portion of her heart that remained in tact, the look on Archer’s face would surely shatter it.

Even in the dimness of the room, she could see the mixture of grief, shock, and disbelief in the tears that filled Archer’s large brown eyes. After ten years of marriage, she knew him well and easily recognized the questions that ran rampant through his mind. He continued to stare her way nonstop, rarely blinking if at all. He was hoping, in her, to uncover answers to questions that disturbed him in ways he’d never felt or imagined. He might as well have screamed for all the judgement his brown orbs exhibited in their sorrow-ridden depths. There no doubt he longed to unleash his anger and pain, and most probably, on her. Still, he said not a word, but nonetheless, it was as though she could hear the well-formed questions: “For the love of God, Isabelle, what the hell is wrong with you? Where is your emotion? Have you no heart, no soul?”

The silence was deafening as she returned her husband’s hard stare, measure for measure, for what seemed like hours. She thought he could see to the depths of her soul, but still, she knew he didn’t have a clue – did not understand her in the least. There was no evidence of tears reflected in her own green gaze to reflect the sheen or tears she saw in his brown one. Instead, the only thing visible in Isabelle’s eyes was an empty, vacant, and somewhat soulless stare that lingered in unrecognizable, alarming display.

Isabelle felt drained, both physically and emotionally. Every instinct screamed for her to plead with Archer and demand he understand. “Help me. I’m not sure I can do this.” Could he not hear her silent cries – realize her whole world was gone in the lapse of a few hours' time? She felt dead, cold, lifeless, and unable to utter the first syllable or shed one tear. A cloud crossed over already emotionally impaired green eyes. No, Archer didn’t understand. He would never understand.

Isabelle drew a deep breath, looked away, and picked at an invisible piece of lint on the blanket covering her legs. As she did so, she watched a tremor move through her hand. Perhaps she wasn’t completely immune to any emotion after all. What she should be feeling was at least clearly visible in her extremity. It was odd, but as she watched, the hand felt completely detached from the rest of her body. Were her emotions, much like her hand, detached, too? It was as though an alien had taken root in her body, killing her ability to feel anything. She felt void, bereft of anything normal. Yes, encroaching darkness had invaded at precisely 7:43 pm, threatening everything she held dear. More importantly, she knew the darkness also threatened her soul, but try as she might, she couldn't manage the least resistance or concern.

Isabelle stole a glance Archer’s way again. He was still watching her without interruption. She suddenly knew that he sensed the darkness, too, but he was at least resisting its firm grasp. Darkness had stolen into their lives and would linger to rob them of everything they treasured. She saw the multitude of questions surfacing in Archer's eyes. The most important question was at the forefront, the unspoken one, and it hung on the air like the scent of stale cigarette smoke: would they be able to survive and fight the darkness together or would they dissipate much like the stale, swirling cigarette smoke?

With concerted effort, Archer straightened and began to move toward the bed. Each step seemed to cause him pain, but he persisted. Isabelle’s fingers clinched the blanket as steel resolve took firmer root in her being. Archer stopped just short of the bed, his eyes sad and penetrating in their brown intensity. He was silently beseeching her to provide answers she knew she could not give. He wanted too much, wanted desperately to see her crumble and breakdown, have some kind of emotional reaction, but she couldn’t find the words – or the strength - to give him what he desired. Archer slowly lifted his hand and extended it her way.

“No! Don’t touch me! I cannot bear it now!” Alarmed, her eyes screamed her response. Surprised by her visceral reaction, Archer stopped and midair, dropped his hand, despair and frustration etched across his face. Fresh tears ran down his cheeks.

Isabelle heard the sharp intake of his breath, saw the tears as Archer hung his head in overwhelming despair. She was able to recognize that there was something more than despair in the depths of his reaction; there was an acknowledgment of defeat, a sense of profound acceptance. Still, she would not – could not – be moved to give her husband what he wanted, even if it was bloody evident what her reaction, or lack thereof, would cost. Archer had made his decision. Just as her husband had lost a much longed for child, he was also choosing to lose a wife he’d loved for more than ten years.

Archer’s next words were not audible, but still, Isabelle heard them as if they echoed repeatedly in the stillness of the room: "Goodbye, Isabelle." The phrase reverberated in her head like the residual repercussion of a sonic bomb.

Archer wiped at his tears, gave Isabelle a slight nod, and then turned to head to the door. He did not look back. For long moments, Isabelle held her breath as she watched the door swing closed behind him. Despite her resolve, a minute inkling of hope teased at her heart. Still, she knew Archer would not return. From the anger and pain reflected in his eyes, it was easy to deduce he thought her an unfeeling monster. She was sure he wondered if he’d ever truly known the woman he'd married. Archer had found no need for words, and she'd been able to read his mind with little effort: “How could a woman - a mother - who just gave birth to a stillborn babe be so void of any emotion - so heartless? You disgust me.”

It was nothing she did not expect - and nothing she did not deserve. Her precious child, her baby boy, had died that evening at exactly 7:43 pm, and her marriage had ended less than five hours later. If she allowed the overwhelming pain to encompass her, devastate her, it would never cease. No, she must be as hard as stone: cold, unyielding, and relentless against all the elements, no matter the cost to her life or her soul.

Isabelle reached to turn off the light and then curled onto her side. It was essential she find sleep. The morning would arrive and there was much to be done. She must be like a soldier, preparing herself for the fight of her life. Or was that the fight for her life?

It was much later as outside, the full moon drifted across the expanse of the ominous, dark sky while inside, Isabelle pulled her pillow tightly against her face and wept. Sobs racked her tired body while, like shattered glass, her heart broke into a million pieces of unending pain, grief, and regret. No one, save the pillow, heard.