Shattered

Warning: this story contains fictionalized accounts of death and mental anguish.

The room was dimly lit, befitting the seriousness of the situation. 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 unsuccessfully to submerge the emotions embodied in his cloaked cry.

Archer. She loved the man dearly - nearly as much as she loved herself - but she couldn't help but grit her teeth in irritation at the sound of his muffled sobs. For the love of Almighty God, would he never stop? His heartbroken cries were going to be her undoing. “Have I not already borne enough without this?” she thought, noting the the irony in her question.

The clock's hands moved with a resounding click to mark the late hour. Isabelle removed her arm from her eyes and peered at it. Was it already midnight? Only moments ago it seemed it had been seven forty-three. She made a mental note to forget the actual time of tonight’s event or she would never be able to look at 7:43 on a clock again in the same way - it would forever be a reminder of things better forgotten. Life did go on, after all, even if fate had swept in like a hurricane to lay siege to her perfect life.

Isabelle stole a glance at Archer and immediately regretted it. He stood in the corner of the room, propped against the wall for support. His body was like a limp rag, as though he had little life left in him. Geez One would think he had gone through the actual experience instead of her. He should get a grip - for her if for nothing else.

Despite a weary appearance, Archer watched her with keen intensity. She couldn't help but thank God she was made of sterner stuff and realistic enough to handle things accordingly. If she'd been any softer or relenting, the pathetic look on Archer’s face would surely have shattered her world.

Even in the dimness, she saw the mixture of grief, shock, and disbelief that filled Archer’s brown eyes. After ten years of marriage, she knew him better than he obviously knew her. She recognized questions running rampant through his mind. - knew he was hoping to uncover answers to questions that disturbed him in ways never imagined. He might as well have screamed them at her for all the judgement his face exhibited in his sorrow-ridden state. She steeled herself. No doubt he longed to unleash his anger and pain directly on her. Though he remained silent, she could hear the well-formed questions: “For the love of God, Isabelle, what the hell is wrong with you? Have you no heart, no soul? Are you even human?”

The silence was deafening. How irritating, she thought. Did he not realize how much she had suffered this night? She knew he didn't have a clue – didn’t understand her in the least, because there were no tears in her green gaze. No, the only thing visible in Isabelle’s eyes was an empty, vacant, and soulless stare that lingered in unrecognizable, alarming display.

Isabelle was drained. She needed to rest, but instead, she was having to deal with Archer and his emotions. What about her, for God’s sake? Her every instinct demanded Archer understand her needs. “I need you to man up and help me. There is much to be done." Despite the severity of the situation, she felt cold and unable to shed the first tear. A cloud crossed over already emotionally void green eyes as her heart hardened even more. No, Archer didn’t understand. Archer would never understand. He was making this all about him and not realizing its profound impact on her.

Isabelle sighed in irritation, looked away, and picked at an invisible piece of lint on the blanket. She watched a tremor move through her hand. Perhaps she wasn’t completely immune to any emotion. What she should be feeling was at least clearly visible in her extremity. Oddly enough, her hand felt detached from the rest of her body. Were her emotions, much like her hand, detached, too? She felt void, bereft of anything normal. Yes, her life had been disrupted at precisely 7:43, threatening everything she valued or that was expected of her. Oddly enough, the first thought never crossed her mind that the unexpected situation - or darkness - also threatened her very soul for she couldn't manage the least real concern.

Isabelle stole a glance Archer’s way again. He was still watching her. She could tell he, too, sensed the imposing disruption. Disillusionment had stolen into their lives and would rob them of everything. She saw a multitude of questions in Archer's eyes, but the most important question was at the forefront. It still remained unspoken and hung on the air like the stale cigarette smoke: would they be able to survive to remain together or would they dissipate much like swirling cigarette smoke?

With concerted effort, Archer straightened and moved toward the bed. His steps looked painful. Isabelle’s fingers clinched the blanket as steel resolve took firmer root in her being. He stopped just short of her, his eyes sad and disillusioned, still watching her intently as though silently beseeching she provide answers he knew she could not give. This man wanted too much. Did he expect her to crumble in desperation and have some sort of emotional breakdown? She would not - could not give him that. Life must go on. Archer lifted his hand, slowly extending it toward her.

“No! Do not touch me! Not now!” Alarmed, her eyes screamed a response. Surprised by her visceral reaction, Archer hand stopped midair, disbelief and frustration clearly etched across his face. Fresh tears ran down his cheeks.

Isabelle heard the sharp intake of his breath told him what she thought of his tears. Archer hung his head in overwhelming despair. She suddenly recognized there was something more than despair in the look he gave her; there was an acknowledgment of defeat, a sense of profound acceptance. Still, she would not give her husband what he desired, even if it was bloody evident what the absence thereof would cost. It was evident Archer had already made his decision. Just as he'd lost a much longed for child, he'd made a choice to also lose a woman he’d shared a life with for more than ten years.

His next words were barely audible, but still, Isabelle heard them as clearly 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 nuclear bomb.

Archer gave Isabelle a slight nod, and then turned toward the door. He opening it and did not look back. For long moments, Isabelle held her breath as she watched the door swing shut. Despite her resolve, a minute inkling of hope teased at her mind. Still, she knew hope was futile - Archer would not return. From the hurt 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. She, on the other hand, knew precisely how unrealistic Archer could be at times. Despite his lack of words, she'd been able to read his mind with no real effort: “How could a woman who just gave birth to a stillborn babe be so void of any emotion - so heartless? You don't deserve to be a mother. You disgust me.”

It was nothing she did not expect - and nothing she did not deserve. Her child, a baby boy, had died that evening at exactly 7:43, and her marriage had ended less than five hours thereafter. If she allowed the reality or the overwhelming pain to encompass her, it would never cease to exist. No, she must be as hard as stone: cold, unyielding, and relentless against all the elements, no matter the cost to her marriage - or even perhaps 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. Life would go on - without or without Archer and without the baby for which she had prepared. She drifted off to sleep only moments later, her mind firmly rooted in her resolve.

Much later, the full moon drifted across the expanse of the ominous, dark sky while from his bed, Archer pulled his pillow tightly against his face and wept. No one could have ever prepared him for the night's events. He'd always known Isabelle was self-centered, but her lack of emotion in the face of such a tragedy had shocked more than possible. He could not, would not, spend the rest of his days shackled to such a selfish being. Sobs racked his body while, like shattered glass, his heart broke into a million pieces of pain, grief, and regret; no one, save the pillow, heard.