Writing Prompt No. 29
There’s a crack, a smashing of glass, a small cry.
David drops the cloth he’s been using to dry up the cutlery and runs through to the back of the kitchen. He pushes open the door to find Wendy sat on an upturned box, the mirror that belonged to her grandmother in fragments scattered all over the floor.
“You okay?” he says touching her shoulder.
Wendy wipes her nose with the wrinkled, damp tissue she holds tight in her hand.
“Shit,” she says thumping her fist down on her thigh, “Mum’ll be upset.”
“An accident,” says David bending down to pick up the largest of the broken mirror pieces. His reflection becomes splintered across the floor. An eye here, part of his shoulder there, his fingers reaching down to the glass. “I’ll get a dustpan and brush.” he says.
“What a stupid bloody thing to do.” Wendy stands up wobbling as she tip toes through the shards across the floor.
“Careful,” says David sweeping gently with the brush as tiny pieces of glass sparkle in the floor dust, “Broken glass can get everywhere. My Dad once got a piece in his eye. Nearly blinded him.” He stands up giving the dustpan a shake from side to side. The broken glass scrapes and scratches along the plastic. “Where did your Mum keep the hoover?” he says, “It would get those last splinters up.”
Wendy shrugs as she lights a cigarette. “Don’t know,” she says, “She’s not here anymore.”
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