The Shattering

Music rang throughout the room, the volume of the speakers turned up to blasting, the bass so loud it rattled the crown molding and vibrated the floorboards of the dance studio Mom had converted for me from one of the forgotten ballrooms.

While remodeled, the space still held the beauty of what it had once been, stretching the full length of the east wing. Copper sconces, once gas but now electric, sat on the wall every six feet on one wall. The wallpaper had been replaced, and now the walls glowed a soft moss green, bay windows let in the storm that lashed outside, but I saw none of it.

I watched myself in the wall of mirrors. Floor to ceiling, bolted in neat cold lines, Clean. Cold. Clinical. A place meant for discipline. Perfection.

Gods, I hated that wall.

But today I needed it. I need to watch myself break.

The song I had foolishly chosen blasted through the room—i hate u, i love u, by gnash—I let it tear into me like a beast. Every lyric hit too close, scraping against places inside of me already raw. My body moved without thinking, grief and choreography had somehow merged into one. I had practiced this solo so many times that the steps were stitched into my muscles—not like this. Never like this.

This time it landed deep in my bones.

This time, it knew my name.

I should never have answered the call.

West sounded wrong. Not angry. Not cold. Just… gone, like someone had turned the volume down on who he was, and all that was left were the outlines, empty spaces.

“We need to talk; I need to talk… I’ll see you when I come home this weekend.” That was all he would say, all he needed to say. I could hear the beginning of the end in his voice; the boy I loved was preparing to break my heart.

So, I danced. Harder. Angrier. Shattering.

Bare feet slammed into the hardwood on time, heart pounding, chest burning. I reached with arms that had once felt full but now felt empty, snapping them back like they could claw the feelings out of me. While the mirror watched, unflinching, uncaring. Every turn, every leap—I saw the tears in my reflection before I ever felt them fall.

I didn’t stop.

I couldn’t

I let the music flood me. Wreck me. Pour through me like fire and glass. I gave it every piece of what I couldn’t say out loud. Pain, fury, fear. Every aching, hollow part of me screamed through the movements, and for one aching, violent moment, it all came together. Like this dance had been waiting for this moment, this heartbreak to finally be real.

The girl in the mirror stopped looking like me.

She was haunted, ethereal, and dangerous in her pain. Black mascara smudged under her dark green eyes from tears and sweat like a mask. Eyes swollen, red, and broken. Emotion pouring out of them, begging for time to stop. Full bare lips parted on each breath, sweat-soaked skin, shaking. There was no poise left. No polish. Only this wraith unraveling on tempo.

This girl didn’t care about clean lines or pointed toes. She didn’t care about perfection and extensions. This girl just wanted to keep moving through the pain long enough that maybe it would stop.

Kelsey always said a solo didn’t land unless you bled into it.

Well, fuck you, Kelsey. I was bleeding.

It wasn’t pretty.

Kelsey was right.

It was beautiful even as it stripped me bare.

So, I cried, cried as I danced over a boy who hadn’t yet broken my heart. A boy who wanted to see the damage in person. Crying in a goddamn ballroom with ghosts who danced with me from a time when this room was made for waltzes.

I’ve always heard adults say teens don’t truly know what love is. Like what we feel is false just because we are young, and in their minds can’t comprehend big feelings.

Yet, I’ve loved West for three years. Longer, if I am being honest.

Children who were born into the same circle of money, power, and polished smiles. Two years older than my cousin Grisham and me, it never seemed to matter. We were thick as thieves as children, then one day, about two and a half years ago, West looked at me and smiled.

In that moment, I became his, and he became mine.

I never looked anywhere else.

So, how did we end up here? Where did it start to break?

I was so lost in my mind, emotions, and the music, I didn’t hear the doorbell. In this moment, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway; I would have ignored it. The world outside didn’t exist for me, only this. Sweat, aching muscles, and the movements of my body.

The song ended, and with it, my body. Breath came fast, sucking air into my lungs as I held the final pose for a moment longer. Finally collapsing on the cold, dark pine floors.

A prism of colors danced on the ceiling as I lay sprawled, gazing up at the ornate crystal chandelier, its edges glinting like captured rainbows. The distant hum of voices faded as I forced my mind back to the present, to the ticking clock on the wall. I had to compose myself; soon, Mom and Leander would be home, their familiar voices filling the house. Mom, her face etched with the memory of past sorrows, had already endured too much.

The ache of losing two loves—first my father, swallowed by a distant war I never knew, and then Silas, his booming laugh silenced by a sudden heart attack just two years ago. The scent of her lavender soap still lingered in the air; she didn’t need to see mine.

A cold dread clenched my gut, and if this was a taste of Mom’s world, she was a goddamn superhero for surviving it. How did she manage to smile, to find joy in the face of such a storm? My world felt like it was crumbling into dust around me, each piece lost with a soft whisper, the scent of decay heavy in the air.

I felt shattered, irrevocably broken. I remained perched precariously on the edge, the metallic tang of fear on my tongue, waiting for the ax to fall with a sickening thud. If this is what love could do, did I want it?

The door opens, and Grisham stands there framed by the pale light from the hall, and my whole body stills. Not because he looks panicked, but because he looks hollow. Heavy. Like whatever he is about to say doesn’t fit in his mouth and chokes him.

I push up, forcing myself to my knees, then to stand. “What?”

His jaw tenses, and he looks anywhere but at me. “You need to come to the study.”

I blink, swiping at the mascara and tears under my eyes. “Why? What happened?”

Clearing his throat, he moved with a practiced grace toward where my water bottle and towel lay, unclaimed, and gathered them. “There are people here, they need to talk to us, to you.” He hands them to me, still not looking at me. I know something is very wrong. Taking the towel and water from him, I clean up my face, and he finally looks at me with a question clear in his eyes. “Later,” I promise. No more tears.

No more weakness.

The girl staring back looked worn but composed. As long as no one looked too closely.

“Ready,” I whisper.

He didn’t say anything. Just stepped forward and took my hand.

And that’s when I knew.

He never reached for me unless something was wrong.

My heart stuttered. My lungs forgot how to breathe.

There were only two people not home.

“Mom… Leander…”

The words left me before I could stop them, and then the panic came. Swift. Total. Like drowning with no water.

I ran.

I didn’t remember making the choice. I just knew my body was moving, that I was tearing through the hall with bare feet and a rising scream building in my throat.

The house was a blur, filled with the scent of dust and old wood, as I passed portraits of strangers, thick curtains, and furniture whispering of legacies I didn’t care to know. Not anymore.

I burst into the study.

Two officers stood waiting—one in uniform, the other in a charcoal suit, his black tie damp and wrinkled. His hair was soaked, rain still clinging to the ends.

Aunt Amara was on the couch, dirt still on her hands, garden sweater stained and sleeves pushed to the elbow like she’d tried to finish pruning roses after the world ended. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her face pale and sunken.

She was shaking. Crying.

I didn’t need to hear the words.

I knew.

Before—I had been dancing for a boy who no longer loved me.
Before—I had a mother who kissed my forehead every night and whispered, Be brave.
Before—I had a little brother who drove me insane, but whose laugh could fix any day.

Now

Now there was nothing but after.

“Ms. Serenity Ashmere?” the man in the suit says softly. His voice was careful, like he didn’t want to wake something dangerous.

I nodded. Barely. I let go of Grisham’s hand. My arms hung at my sides like they didn’t belong to me anymore.

“There was an accident,” he says. “A rockslide. The rain triggered it. Your mother and brother’s vehicle was caught in it. The car went over the railing.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“I regret to inform you that your mother died at the scene. Your brother passed in transit to the hospital.”

The silence that followed wasn’t real. It was a black hole. And I fell straight through.

My vision went blurry around the edges. My body buzzed, cold and too hot at once.

I did not scream.

I did not cry.

I did not fall.

But something inside me did. Something cracked open in a way that could never be fixed.

“Detective Hamilton,” he offered when I didn’t speak.

I nodded again, wooden. “When can I… make arrangements?”

His lips pressed together. "Bodies should be released in 24 to 48 hours. I’ll leave my card.”

He handed it to me. I didn’t look at it.

“Thank you,” It sounded like someone else’s voice. Someone older. Someone used to grief.

He gave me that look. That soft, pitying smile.

And I hated him for it.

I waited in silence, the air thick with unspoken tension, nodding as he spoke further words I didn’t hear—didn’t care to hear. His voice was distant, like it were coming through thick glass. Muffled. Meaningless.

None of it mattered. Not to me.
Not anymore.

I was alone. An orphan. Brotherless. Hollowed out like someone took a knife and carved me from the inside out. Yes, I still had Grisham. Aunt Amara. I wouldn’t have to pack a bag or be sent to strangers. But that was just logistics. Paperwork. Survival.

My mother was dead.
My brother was dead.

The words hadn’t stopped echoing in my skull since he said them, jagged and sharp, chewing through my thoughts. I kept blinking, hoping the room would snap back to normal. Hoping this was some horrific, twisted hallucination brought on by stress or grief, or overwork. But it wasn’t. This was real. It was my real.

I watched as the officers left, their condolences trailing behind them like smoke. Grisham stood frozen, the stale scent of the room thick around him, trapped between the twin orbits: his mother, a defeated heap on the couch, and me, a statue of grief. He hesitated.

I didn’t.

Before he could see it in my eyes, I ran.

I bolted through the house, past polished floors and curated portraits, rooms echoing with ghosts that hadn’t even settled yet. I didn’t see the beauty. Couldn’t feel the warmth. The estate felt foreign now, like a body without a soul.

I didn’t stop until I reached the back door. I shoved it open, and the storm swallowed me whole. Rain slapped against my face and shoulders, soaking my skin, plastering my clothes to me like a second, shivering layer of grief. The grass under my bare feet was slick and cold. I ripped the hair tie from my head and let my hair fall wild behind me. If I had wings, they would have burst from my back in that moment. I didn’t want a flight—I wanted freedom. Escape. An end to the pressure building in my chest.

I heard Grisham yell my name behind me, but I didn’t stop.
Didn’t give him the chance to catch up.

I sprinted for the tree line, breath ragged and shallow, lungs burning. The woods loomed ahead—tall pines swaying like mourning giants. The wind howled through them, crying for me because I couldn’t. Not yet.

Pain flared as the forest tore at me. Pine needles, sharp rocks, underbrush—everything reached for me, cut me, reminded me I was still here. Still alive when I shouldn’t be. A branch lashed across my face, slashing my cheek open. I stumbled, but kept going, faster now, as if I just ran hard enough, far enough, I could leave my pain behind. But it clung to me like shadows, dragging along at my heels.

Something inside me was unraveling. Something ancient and ugly and loud. A storm within a storm. The second the detective spoke, that beast had awakened—and now it had claws. And teeth. And grief had made it mad.

By the time I reached the cliff, I was breathless and bleeding, scraped and soaked and shaking.

I stopped right at the edge.

The ocean below roared up at me, waves crashing against the rocks like fists on a door I’d never open again. I tilted my head back and screamed. Screamed until my voice cracked, until my ribs hurt from the force of it. I screamed until the thunder answered me.

All the pain. All the rage. All the guilt.

I dropped to my knees, fists digging into the muddy grass, sobs wracking through me now that the scream was spent. I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t breathe.

Behind me, I heard Grisham’s footsteps finally catch up. His breathing ragged. But I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t.

Because if I did—if I saw his grief reflected in his eyes—I’d shatter into a thousand pieces and the storm would carry me away.