Book Broken Pieces Novels & Stories

Instead, it atomised like a bomb in an explosion. Prior to this day, it had broken in every possible way. Slowly. Suddenly. Violently. Bluntly. Into two pieces and into ten, hundreds, thousands of them. Oftentimes it broke on its own, other times it had been shattered: through carelessness or cruelty, and thrown against the wall, it had left stains, almost like the gray one above her bed.

Because based on his advices, he seems to be an expert in the problem I am facing. "I don't think you can win her back. Remember this Del Mundo, not everything that breaks is restored. Cianna's fragile, and you know that fragile should be handled with care because once it's broken, it can't be repaired. Glasses, vases and other fragile materials—ike this. . ." "What the h*ll!" I screamed after he dropped the glass he was holding. "Look at that glass, I broke it. Now, let me fix it." He knelt down to pick up the broken pieces of glass one by one.

Broken glass littered the floor near the dresser where I had hurled a crystal decanter. Books lay scattered, their pages torn and crumpled. Picture frames…most containing photos of Celine and Caesar…lay face-down, their glass cracked beyond repair. With a heavy sigh, I began picking up the larger pieces, placing them carefully in the waste basket. Each piece seemed to mock me, reflecting my fractured soul at me in jagged pieces. This destruction was nothing compared to what I'd done to my relationship with Celine and Caesar. As I worked, my mind replayed our last encounter with sickening clarity. The way Celine had looked at me…her beautiful brown eyes filled with pain and disbelief.

Just a sudden urge to look inside. At first, everything looks normal to me. Towels made of paper. Ground coffee. A serviette that is folded. After that, the light changes. It gets caught in the glass. My breath leaves me in a sharp rush. Broken pieces are wrapped in a towel. The jagged edges are dull from care but still very clear. A glass of wine. Or what's left of one. The stem broke in half. The bowl broke into pieces that weren't even. My stomach hurts.

CHAPTER 64: BREAKING DOWN. VIKTOR. I never knew what shattered glass feel like. Honestly no one knows. How hurtful it is. How painful it is. Or how sharp and dangerous it is. I have always broken many things in my life and in my house. Many. I have broken my television when I was angry. I have broken my phone when I am messed up. I have broken glass table, glasses and cups and bottles and much more. Partially everything a house contains.

He looked disheartened and weak like he can be crushed like a piece of paper. He then walked towards the photo frames decorated on the wall of his room and then next moment, they lay on the floor, broken into thousand pieces. He picked up one of the broken pieces of glass and then pressed it hard in his fists. His hand started bleeding, but he didn't even bother to notice the blood.

Lorenzo wanted to know what the file said about the situation. "Who?" I said Matteo Russo. The glass that Lorenzo was holding in his hand suddenly broke into pieces. The glass, in Lorenzos hand was completely shattered. Lorenzos glass was broken now. He did not drop it. He squeezed the whiskey glass hard that the glass broke. Now whiskey and blood are dripping onto the rug. The whiskey glass is. That is a big problem. The man did not appear to feel the pain. He looked at me his eyes were really wide, with a lot of horror. He just could not believe what he was seeing.

CRACK. The three-inch-thick solid oak table shattered down the center, its heavy legs buckling as the wood splintered into jagged fragments, collapsing onto the marble floor in a violent spray of debris. The heavy decanter of Scotch exploded, sending amber liquid and crystal shards cascading across the polished stone.

“Did you do something wrong that would make me angry?” The question hit me like a punch, I blinked. Her eyes finally met mine. I stared at her, something was definitely wrong. I just didn’t know what, she took another drink, then laughed softly. Not a happy laugh, the kind that came from pain. “You know…” Her voice was distant. “Sometimes people think broken things can be repaired if they glue the pieces back together.” I said nothing, and she continued. “But even if the cracks disappear…” Her fingers tightened around the bottle. “…you still remember where they were.”

Layered. “I am not an empty vessel,” I said, standing in the illusion. “I am not a cup for the moon to pour into and pour out of. I am a person. I chose this bond.” I reached up and touched the mirror. “Break,” I said. It did. The glass shattered without cutting me, dissolving into harmless light that rained down and then evaporated. The elders vanished. The temple peeled away. The Veil’s half-light replaced it, the serpent’s presence shriveling like a slug dashed with salt.