Novelas y relatos de Shattered Glass How I Met Your Mother

She watches my uncle and Leo step out of the room, contemplating joining them or staying right back to be there for me. “Leave, Mom,” I tell her. “I need a moment to myself. She sighs, nods, and leaves my office. The first sound of glass resounds in my home office once she shuts the door. The glassware that used to be on my desk stares at me from the floor in their broken state. But it does nothing to calm the heaviness and hurt in my heart. I turn to the shelf beside me and pull at till it crashes to the damn floor. The commotion is accompanied by a loud growl that tears through my throat.

Ryder persisted. Seated before him, I was rendered numb. My hands trembled and perspired, causing the glass to slip from my grasp. The shattered fragments lay before me, mirroring the state of my own heart. Amusing, was it not? It proved a trifling matter for him to deceive me, to sway my convictions. Tears did not fall from my eyes. The untimely departure of my mother instilled within me an unwavering fortitude, yet the sting of her absence persisted. The whereabouts eluded me. I endeavored to maintain consciousness as the entire world seemed to revolve around me.

"There's always a choice, Margaret, until there isn't one. He didn't take me for money. He took me because he wanted me to remember exactly what he has on me, and what happens to this family if it ever sees daylight." A chair scrapes against the floor. "What did you agree to?" My father doesn't answer right away, and in the silence I lean closer without meaning to. My hands find the small table against the wall, and the framed photo on it tips, slow, then not slow, and shatters against the floor before I can catch it. The voices inside go dead silent. The door opens before I can move. My father stands there, looking at the broken glass at my feet, and then at me. Something behind his face is

Chapter 73: The Fallout I wake to the sound of glass shattering downstairs. Heart pounding, I sit upright in bed. For a moment, I think I imagined it—until I hear my father’s voice, low and tense, followed by Emma’s sharp gasp. Throwing on my robe, I rush down the stairs. The living room window is broken. A brick lies on the floor surrounded by shards of glass. Taped to it is a piece of paper, smeared with something red.

It’s hurting. “Come and take it.” She holds it out to me, but the moment I take a step forward to grab it, she lifts the frame high up and lets it free fall to the floor. I watch my entire world shatter into pieces against the hard tiled floor together with the only beautiful thing I had left of my family. The glasses of the frame fly all over the place and our broken smiles on the picture lay miserable on the floor. Tears blur my eyes as I look from the shattered frame to Rhea and her wicked laugh tips me over the edge. Wrath spreads through my limbs like larva.

she askes me as she closes her book. “It really was. This glass” I say tapping it with my knuckles “Is shatter proof. When she first came here she was just starting to come into her abilities and lets just say I had to replace almost all the glass in the house after she had an episode and shattered it” a smile tugs on my lips when I think back to that day and how vulnerable she was.

The crash of breaking glass and clattering dishes echoed through the room, shards scattering across the floor like my shattered hopes. I pounded on the door with both fists, my voice cracking with desperation. "Mom! Please! Just open the door! I promise I won't go against you anymore! I'll do whatever you want!" Silence. This made my heart sink further into my stomach. "What am I supposed to do now?" I whispered to myself, kicking at the broken pieces scattered across the floor. "If you keep shattering all our good trays," came my mother's voice from the other side of the door, "there won't be enough left for you to use."

"I heard she destroys things when she's angry." "No, not true." I kept my head down, fists tight. Lies. All of it. But the truth wasn’t any better. Because I didn’t know "what" to think of. One minute, I’d been arguing with my stepmother in the penthouse—her perfect lips curled in hatred, her perfectly manicured finger pointing toward my room like I was a dog to be dismissed—and the next, every mirror in the apartment had *shattered*. No wind. No earthquake. Just me, screaming, and then—glass raining down like knives.

She had been an irresponsible mother, disappearing from home for weeks at a time, only to return and drain whatever savings I had. “I don’t have it right now,” my mother finally whispered, her voice small and almost childlike. Scarface’s face darkened. “Wrong answer,” he said. He motioned to one of the men behind him, who immediately seized a lamp from the side table and smashed it against the wall. The shattering sound was overwhelming, shards of glass scattering across the floor. I stepped back, gasping, as another man kicked over the coffee table, sending its contents flying. “Stop!” I pleaded, my voice trembling. “Please, just stop!”

He didn’t stop. In the kitchen, something was broken. The table was on its side. Shards of glass sparkled on the floor like stars that had fallen and shattered. “Pick those up,” he said. I looked at him. “Where’s Mommy?” “Out.” The word dropped like a stone. I bent down and picked up a piece of glass. My fingers shook. One piece, two, three. A tiny one sliced my thumb. I gasped. Blood bubbled up and spilled down my hand.