Shattered

Was this really the same house? The same house they’d sat alone in, wrapped up in a blanket whilst watching films together in? The house they had shared so many valuable and precious moments of their long relationship in? It didn’t look like it.

Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. The walls were damp and mould was growing in every corner. A spider was working its way across the bedroom ceiling, its web tangling everything from the corners of mould to the lone lightbulb dangling from the cord of wire off the cracking paint of the ceiling.

He knew he shouldn’t have come back, especially after he’d been making so much progress with his counselling and new home. He was living a whole new life, and was finally starting to see the light. Until he happened to drive past the old house on his way back from his new job at the tiny bookstore in the main village.

He had never sold the house, much to the annoyance of his family and counsellor, who all believed that he would finally be able to get over the trauma of losing his long-term boyfriend if he would just forget about the damn place. He did forget about it. He just never felt ready to sell it.

Now he was wishing he’d never come back in. Every time he looked at the ratty old sofa, he could see the two of them cuddled together. Every time he glanced at the stained old mattress, he saw them lying side by side, faces close and breathing softly against each other. Why did he have to die?

But what really got him was seeing the stain on the kitchen floor. It was a blotchy purple splatter, fading into the dirt of the tiles, but clearly visible across the small area of floor. After entering the room and reaching a spot just in front of the centre of the stain, he dropped down to his knee. His face was focussed on an empty space just above him, where he stared with as much determination as possible. It was like the night happening all over again.

He fidgeted and twitched in his seat, feeling incredibly restless and unable to wait for what was about to happen.

“No, seriously, are you okay? You’ve been like this all night. I’m worried about you, babe. If there’s something wrong, just tell me.” The other man seated at the table smiled, his hand reaching out for his boyfriend’s. He knew he’d been having a tough time at the office, and that some people were giving him shit that he really didn’t need, so he knew he had to treat him as carefully as possible.

The other man smiled. “No, I’m not feeling bad. In fact, can we get up?” He asked, watching his boyfriend’s face twist into confusion at the unusual reply. Nevertheless, he stood up to and walked to the centre of the kitchen, wine glass still in hand.

He watched in shock as the trembling man opposite dropped to his knees, and began fumbling around in his pockets. Immediately his brain landed on the dirty thought, but when he saw how nervous his boyfriend was becoming, he brushed away the idea. This was serious, and he had to act as supportive as possible.

When it appeared he’d finally found the object in his pocket, he pulled it out and hid it in his cupped palms.

“Robin, we’ve been together for four years, we’ve been through practically everything together. So I need to ask you, wi-” He was cut off by the sharp sound of the doorbell slicing through the tension in the room, and causing the glass of wine to drop from Robin’s grasp. The glass shattered across the floor, sending red splashes flying across the grey tiles in a pattern that made his heart sink.

Immediately Robin dropped down, apologising profusely, and trying to pick up the bits of glass with his bare hands. He had known what was about to be said, and he was having to hold back tears at the thought of being interrupted at such an important moment.

“No, I’ll clean that up. You get the door.”

So Robin had answered the door. He’d stepped outside of the house to sign the electronic pad which the delivery man was waving in his face. He didn’t stop to think that they hadn’t ordered anything until the gun had been pulled on him.

And then he was dead.

So the marriage had never happened. The relationship had ended with a bang, and the murderer had not been found until six months later, hidden in an abandoned car warehouse. The same gun had still been in his possession.

The wine stain that had only been partially cleaned up still remained. Along with a few shards of glass.

Carefully, he bent down to the dirty tiles and scooped up a hand full of glass shards, ignoring the tiny prickles of pain when the edges dug into his palm. He let the small shards trickle through his fingers and into the pocket of his hoodie, but leaving the one large shard that couldn’t fit.

The dim kitchen light was bouncing off the edges of the glass, and sending a brighter glow around the area where he stood. Nothing big, just a dim glow that reflected his mood at that moment. He felt like his whole body was now only a dim glow, whereas with Robin it had been a shining star, a supernova. Why did he have to die?

He turned around, glass in hand, to the clock on the wall (which still showed the correct time, even after so long. It felt like it should still show the exact time of Robin’s death). It told him he had been in the house for nearly five hours. Or rather, he’d been sat in the front garden, staring at the spot of his boyfriend’s death with tear filled eyes for those long, dragged out hours. Why did he have to die?

He was about to turn away from the clock which was only dimly lit by the weak lightbulb and its glow from the glass edges.

But then something caught his eye. Something different.

The wall with he was facing was now no longer glowing with the dim yellow hue of the lightbulb above reflecting off the glass, but was instead glowing a strange shade of dark blue. The off-white, peeling wallpaper was now blue. The ticking clock was now a faint shade of blue.

For a few moments, he could only stare. His brain wasn’t offering the rest of his body any reasons as to the blue tinge, since it was still echoing with the grief and pain of the memories that the house reeked of. Never got to propose. Gunshot.

Then, slowly, he drew his eyes down to the piece of glass in his hand. When he’d focussed and blinked away the tears, he dropped the shard in shock. Blue eyes. Big blue eyes. Dark. Like the midnight sky.

With a fresh set of tears pouring down his cheeks, he crawled towards the glass hesitantly. Can this really be real?

Sure enough, the reflection of a large, midnight blue eye filled up every jagged corner of the glass, its long eyelashes fluttering in that familiar way that made his heart ache. It wasn’t a reflection of his own eye, as that was a boring muddy brown (which Robin had always insisted was a pretty colour. Not like chocolate, but lighter, like caramel). So it could only be the eye of... Smiling eyes. Dark eyes. Watching me constantly. Loving me.

He stared at the glass for a few moments, convinced it was nothing more than an illusion created by his grief-ridden brain. He’d known coming back was a bad idea, and should’ve sold the place when he had the chance. Now it was driving him crazy.

He blinked down at the glass once more, expecting the illusion to have disappeared when his eyes reopened. It hadn’t. Instead, not a second after his own eyes had opened up, the reflected eye blinked too. Blinking at me from across the room. Blinking beside me in bed. Blinking and smiling.

Then the eye took on a weird crinkled effect, and it all crashed down on him. Smiling face and smiling eyes, hugs and kisses, eyes glinting, dark blue mystery dotted with shining stars. Loving and caring.

Tears still streaming down his cheeks and dribbling off his chin to stain his shirt, he pocketed the shard with shaky fingers, not caring that a few smaller pieces overflowed from his pocket to the floor when he shoved it in. It couldn’t be real. It wasn’t. His feet were wobbly on the tiles, and he felt like a new born lamb as he slid across the floor and gripped the walls for support until he reached the front door.

It wasn’t locked, but the chain was still on, which was torture for his trembling fingers. Not real not real not real have to get out. When the thing dropped off out of pure luck, he was out like a shot, wobbling down through the spot where Robin had been shot and further, out onto the street.

A car horn beeped as he stumbled across the busy road to where his car had been parked for those torturous five hours of being driven to breaking point.. He was still stuck in a daze of disbelief and shock. I need to get back. I’m hallucinating. I’ve gone insane.

He felt like he was drunk driving, which was something that hadn’t been done since his college days (when I met Robin). His hands trembled on the steering wheel and he couldn’t seem to find the right gears when his hand fumbled along the stick. It was a nightmare.

He’d only run one red light and four ambers before he reached the driveway to his new bungalow (‘small and bright, perfect to help you start your new life’) which thankfully had all its lights switched off, meaning no sneaky counsellors were waiting for him to arrive back and confront him. He was nervous enough. He couldn’t deal with the sharp cheekbones, squinting eyes and taut lips questioning him for hours until she found out the real reason for him being late.

The car was on an incredible tilt in its parked position, and he noted several hydrangeas (‘they make the place look desirable, a new and beautiful place to live’) had been trampled by his front right wheel. It was the least of his worries.

He jogged up the rest of the drive to the small wooden door decorated with the stained glass image of a bright yellow, smiling sunshine, which was apparently there to make him feel safe whenever he reached his new home. The truth was that he just felt angry at how happy the image was. He wasn’t happy. He didn’t need to be happy. He was lonely and was perfectly content with sitting alone and feeling sorry for himself, which his counsellor never seemed to understand. She thought sitting around in the dark reading books was a one way trip to depression.

Stupid woman. I’m already depressed.

He was just turning the key in the lock on the door when he noticed it. His breath caught; tears returned to his eyes, and the sunshine blurred away until he could only see one thing, standing out against the dark pine. And that thing was midnight blue.

The slip of paper was held in place by the ornate golden door knocker, and was folded into a tiny square. It was a very precise fold, with no overhanging edges or crinkled paper, so whoever had left it had put a lot of effort into making it look good. Slowly, he removed the square from its trap, and began to unfold each of the many layers of paper he held. When the inside note was only half a piece away, his fingers froze with realisation. Blue. They had to be connected. Nobody he knew would dare leave a note on paper this shade, fearing he might break down and require some kind of urgent treatment.

So it wasn’t someone he knew. Not someone I know who’s alive.

The last fold was moved out of the way, and that was it.

His breathing stopped. Tears stopped running down his cheeks. He paled. Anyone looking out of their windows at him right now might think he were dead on his feet, if it weren’t for the vice like grip he had on the slip of paper.

And then, slowly but surely, the look of absolute horror plastered to his face merged into a small flicker of the lips. A not-quite smile, but still a gesture of happiness. He knew that Robin was dead and he knew that he wished with all his heart that his beautiful, amazing boyfriend would just fucking come back to him, because he couldn’t live without him.

But he wasn’t going to have to live without him. Or at least, not really. Technically he would still be expected to be grieving the loss of his loved one, his not-quite husband, the man of his dreams. However, he didn’t need to anymore.

On the slip of dark blue paper was a drawing in black ballpoint pen. It was uncoloured, leaving everything that same heart wrenching blue, but it was enough.

Because the picture was of a perfectly drawn Batman and Robin, dressed in their crime fighting costumes, kissing on an altar.

Robin was there for him. And Batman had to keep going. Keep fighting. Keep living.

But he still didn’t have to die.