Breaking the 4th

Maybe she passed out, or maybe her brain went on a fritz from the shock. Shatter wasn’t sure. But before she realized she found herself perched on a slab of stone, mindlessly petting a patch of moss that grew in uneven strips along the small stream that split the floor of the vacant stone sanctuary she mysteriously awoke in.

Under different circumstances, she may have even admired the haunting gothic architecture that surrounded her. Tall columns in perfect rows loomed over her like towering giants, curves carved into stone with elegant precision. The symmetry of the pointed arches extended to the impossibly high ceiling, making her feel small and insignificant. The would-be massive stained glass was cracked and layered with grime, only allowing a few strands of muddied light descending down to the broken ground, touching down on nature that broke through the crumbling foundation of the church.

The small stream was a nice touch--- Nature meets Architecture. Maybe if she had a clue as to why she was there in the first place she would’ve taken time to appreciate the dark and poetic beauty of it all. But of course, she wasn’t afforded that luxury. The only space she had in her head at the moment was questioning her sanity in a constant loop.

Shatter pursed her lips, her brows furrowing as she tried to recall anything from before she woke up.
What did I do last night?
Who was I with?
What did I eat?
Drugs… did I do drugs?

But she couldn’t recall a single thing. Not a damn thing.

And so came the vicious emotional cycle that included whiplash inducing mood swings and a lot of pacing.
Denial. “This is a dream. It’s not real. Psh, another cocaine-candied dream.”
Anger. “What the fuck! Where am I?!”
Bargaining. “I will give up noodles for a week…no, two weeks if I can go home.”
Depression. This part consisted of silent wallowing and self-pity, tired sobbing or an assemblage of both.
Acceptance. “I lost it. I know it. I lost my fucking marbles.” Shatter muttered, a dry manic giggle choking through.

This was the lather-rinse-repeat cycle the girl had plunged into, and it was a rather appalling display.
Shatter sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve, feeling pathetic. For what felt like hours she had been talking, yelling and crying out her frustrations loud to the empty air to no one in particular. So it was only about time that she started switching gears.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” Shatter asked the open air.
That was only a reasonable jump, as she was already on the psychological five stages of death treadmill.
Silence was thick in the air like an invisible fog, suffocating her skin with the damp cold. She didn’t let the obvious lack of response hinder her.
“I think I’m in purgatory. I mean, this can’t be Hell, this is a fucking church after all. But not a nice church….definitely not a like a…heavenly church.”

She knew she was rambling like a madwoman. She also knew that she was getting upset at nothing. She just didn’t care.
“What, purgatory can’t afford a decent interior designer?” Shatter spat, spinning back to anger. “I thought you guys had Dick Roman!”

She wasn’t expecting a reply or an answer. Of course she wasn’t. Imagine her surprise when suddenly she wasn’t the only one asking questions.

“Who are you talking to?” came a voice from behind.