Broken

Chapter VI

"What in the hell..." I breathe and shake my head. This is getting too weird.

I put my foot on the brake and shift my car into reverse, then I look behind me and pull out of the parking space. I creep behind the other vehicles, ranging from rusted pickup trucks to shiny sports cars, to the exit of the lot where I'll make a left turn onto the main road. One by one, each car turns. One goes left, two go right, another goes left, and now me. My blinker signals left, and I wait until its clear, and I gas it. Plenty of time. I get up to the speed limit, maybe a tad over, and turn my radio on. With one hand on the wheel, I turn on Bluetooth and pick my phone out of the cupholder. There's still an old coffee cup from two days ago in the other one. I'll trash that at home. Scrolling through my playlists, I pick one and replace my phone to its designated place in the cupholder. Some calming rock music to soothe my mind. Most people would say this music makes them want to scream at the top of their lungs. Not me. I start to sing.

I have to make a right turn to get onto the highway, the quickest route to my house. It takes fifteen minutes.

I merge over to the fast lane and I drive. Just drive and listen to music--my daily routine.

I pass one exit, which means I take the next one. I check my right blind spot and move over a lane, and then another. The roads are surprisingly empty. The closest car behind me is the size of a small moth in my rearview mirror.

Its a Friday. Where is everyone?

I see the sign that reads Exit 216. I take this exit, and slow down to stop at the stop sign. I turn on my right blinker, check left and right, and turn.

The rest of the drive is a blur. Tree, tree, field, tree, my house. I park in my driveway and turn the key to shut off the engine. I reach into the back seat to grab my bookbag, and I see something strange. Something out of place. There's a small, clear object the size of a quarter on the mat on the floor of the backseat. What...? I reach down and pinch it between my fingers and put it up to my face. I can see through it and it looks like a piece of shattered glass. The edges are not smooth and the corners are sharp. I nick my middle finger on my right hand and drop the piece of glass. Ouch. I don't bother to look for it again.

A drop of blood falls from my finger and stains my beige console. I exhale with aggrevation. I just cleaned that.

I pick up my bookbag and take my phone out of the cupholder, and I open my door. I swing my legs over to the side and then i stand up. I forgot how cold it was. Brrrrr.

I slam the car door and walk up the porch steps to my front door fumbling around for the house key on my checkered lanyard around my neck. I put my house key into the deadbolt only to realize it is already unlocked. I could have sworn I locked it this morning. Strange.

I nudge the door with my shoulder and it creaks open. I peek around the door frame using the sunlight from outside to my advantage. I smell blown-out candles. I step inside and slowly close the door. In the darkness, I blindly flip the light switch. Nothing has been moved or is out of place, except the smell. Blown-out candles. I scout for the source of the smell, so I roam the house and check halls and bedrooms.

When I finally make it to the kitchen, I do a double take. The is a lone candle with a slim line of black smoke rising from its wick. No flame. The candle is a creamy white, six inches tall with drops of melted wax cooling down the sides. I stare at it hoping it isn't real, an apparition. I'm imagining things. It is surrounded by bits of sand. Wait, no. That's not sand.

That's glass.