Fracture

Henry wakes in the early morning hours to find his eldest daughter barely breathing on her bed. An empty pill bottle lays nearby. He leaps into action as the world around him fractures.

Bent/Broken

A short thing by 

A.B. Hewitt

I don’t know exactly what woke me. Maybe there is a sense that kicks in when your world is about to be shattered into a million little pieces. The clock was beaming red lasers into my eyes, burning 2:46 AM into my retinas. A strange sense pulled me upright, my heartbeat coming more into focus. I spun my legs over the edge of the bed, startling them with the sting of the cold hardwood before they even knew they were awake. They were as confused as I was. But there was something calling me from the blackness of the hallway between our bedroom and hers. 

Had I not been summoned by this preternatural sense of foreboding, I would not have found her in time. She was lying on top of her neatly pressed sheets. Not dressed for sleep, she was still wearing the pink and white sweater and bluejeans that she had worn to school. Her nails were neatly painted a cheery lime green. Her appearance was strikingly peaceful. If not for the pale tone that had muted the rosiness of her cheeks, I probably would have assumed she was sleeping. 

I noticed the bottle next to the bed almost immediately. A lucky find that again must have come from some deep sense that only activates when your child is in danger. If I had been cleaning her room I likely would have missed it lingering near the edge of her bedskirt. The glass she used for water was empty on her nightstand. She never drinks the entire glass. I had sat the glass there myself several hours earlier, as I do every night as I remind her to take her Zoloft. My brain dumped the entire interaction on me all at once, as if connecting all of the dots that led to this moment. I told her I loved her. Told her to not stay up all night. Like she is going to listen, I remember thinking. 

She took her pills. All of her pills. Still trying to make sense of what I had awoken to, my brain went to work on the math. She had just had her prescription filled two days ago. She forgot her medication at least once a week. And she had been on it for months. I tried and failed to put a realistic number on what she took. I finally snapped back into the moment, realizing that it didn’t matter how many. Too many was the only answer that mattered. 

My mind took a backseat as my legs kicked into gear. I leapt more than ran to her bed, scooping her up and pulling her to me. I felt for a pulse, like I had seen in the movies. My hands were shaking too badly. My fingers forgot how to feel anything. I could tell she was breathing, though. This gave me just enough comfort to pause for a split second. I knew I needed to call someone. I needed to get her mother. But I would have given anything in that moment to keep Heather from ever knowing that any of this was happening. I looked around the room frantically, expecting a phone to be anywhere in sight to make it easier. Samantha’s phone should have at least been there, but I couldn’t see it. Later I found it on her nightstand, next to the empty glass of water. My desperation had rendered it invisible at the time. 

I ran back to our room. I hit the light as I shouted at Heather in a broken mess of words. “Get up. You have to get up.” The shaking in my voice did a fair job of communicating that something was terribly wrong. But the confusion on her now wide-awake face as she shot out of bed pulled the air from my lungs. I grabbed my phone, barely able to hit the right numbers as it bounced around violently in my hand.

“911, what is your emergency” rang like thunder throughout my brain. It did feel like a movie. That is the only thing specifically that I remember from that conversation. I held the phone to my ear and spit out bits and pieces of what was happening. They kept asking questions that felt like an interrogation. I am sure they were doing their job admirably, but at the time I remember thinking, enough with the f*****g questions. I was on the phone for what seemed like days. As I was trying to explain to them something that there really shouldn’t be words for, I made it back to Samantha’s room. Her mother was there, cradling and rocking her as she looked at me to do something besides stand around on the phone. I started talking to Sam while still trying to give details to the dispatcher. Heather kept repeating “I love you” at least a million times while I tried to assure Sam, her mother, and myself that things were going to be alright. Later on they would tell me that it was only about eight minutes between me calling 911 and the EMTs pouring into Sam’s room. 

The tremors started to subside as the ambulance pulled away. There was only room for one of us, and I knew that there was no question as to who would stay by Sam’s side. Heather didn’t ask, nor did I offer. She never got more than two feet away from our daughter, even as the EMTs were visibly annoyed by her hovering. After the ambulance carrying my wife and child disappeared, I kept waiting for the lights to stop bouncing around the treetops before breaking my concentration. I looked back to the house, mostly dark except for the yellow gleam of the front door, still ajar, and the light of the second story hall. I thought about the other two, still fast asleep and undisturbed by the chaos that rocked their peaceful home for an excruciating fifteen minutes. I had no idea how to explain this Gracie and Drew. I desperately wanted someone to explain it to me.

I drifted back through the front door, pushing it tightly until I was satisfied that it was as shut as it could be. I twisted the deadbolt tightly, as if knowing that the door was firmly locked would make me feel safer. Even though the real danger was probably being carted through the hospital in that moment. What the hell am I supposed to do?, I thought. The house no longer felt like mine. It was supposed to be a place of joy. A place where my wife and children would feel safe and loved. But somehow it had changed into something else. Something sorrowful and full of pain. Every wall. Every doorway. Every picture of smiling children on the wall. They were all marked now by something dreadful.   

I shambled up the stairs towards younger girls’ room. I stopped at the door for several seconds, listening for any signs that they had been roused from their slumber. Tears fought their way to the rims of my eyes. I prayed that they wouldn’t wake up. They would see the tears and I would have to tell them something. I was in no shape to be strong for them. Not the type of strong that they would need. They deserved to stay resting peacefully for at least one more night of innocence. They would know in the morning, and this might be the last night they get to sleep soundly for a while.

I sat myself on the edge of Sam’s bed. I took in the messy drawings that she had tacked to the walls. The pictures of her and her friends being goofy. The crumpled poster of The Avengers that I had offered to frame, before she decided it would be better to tear up the corners with Scotch tape. I soaked it all in and wondered to myself how could this girl… I stopped myself. I knew the answer was not going to come easy. Not there, that night, sitting on that bed. And it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was okay. It mattered that she came home. We could figure all of the rest out later.

On her wall was a Micky Mouse clock that she had had since infancy. I had forgotten that it had even existed. Micky’s hands were still working fine, sixteen years later. 3:15. Half an hour. That is all the time that had passed since I had entered into this new, painful reality. 

“What the hell happened in here, Micky?” I said. In my fragile state, I was almost surprised that I didn’t get an answer. And later I would learn that it was not only foolish to ask Micky such an incomprehensible question, but anyone for that matter. Because some questions simply never have satisfying answers.

Author's Note

This is short and was never meant to go anywhere, but I'm thinking I may build it into something. How does it work as a first chapter? Gripping enough to make the reader want to know what happens next? (And I'm new here, so I'm not sure I'm doing this right 🤞🏻)