Memory

My memory of the incident comes in waves. Some days, I can relive every detail, every smell, every colour, the tiniest of specks of dust floating in the sun streaming through my window. Other days, the images blur, like sand stirring up beneath the waves of a roiling sea.

The smell of copper, the black patches, the smashing of the glass.

That Monday started like any other, sipping my green tea while I caught up on weekend emails, listening to the news on the radio, snippets of the most interesting events in a score of other people's lives. The sun shone brightly, making dust cloud kaleidoscopes. Most importantly, I experienced waves of happiness, as though my routine could protect me from all the evil that dwells outside my sanctuary.

But the darkness can seep through any crack, slipping between molecules or shoving its way, cracking and splintering as it advances. Accidents aren't mistakes, per se, they are coincidences smushed up against flukes, mixing with fate until they become outcomes.

Come through my window they did. Smash through my walls they did. My body, once taken for granted, became a fulcrum between a fender and my bookshelf.