Read Breaking Glass for Free Online Page B

room is still dark. The wind kicks up. Cold rain slaps the driveway, plastering my hair to my scalp. Gingerly, I lower myself until I am sitting on my butt, the scaffolded leg jutting out like a bridge to nowhere. Rain muddies the place where the growth of moss has been disturbed not so long ago.
    Using the tip of my crutch as a spade, I loosen the dirt. The rubber tip bonks something hard. Swiveling, I dig with both hands and feel the corner of what appears to be a box or something.
    Rain slams me with repeated thuds. Muddy water fills the hole I’ve made as I pull a cigar box out of the ground. Though the colorful paper label has nearly disintegrated, I recognize the box as the one from Susannah’s animation. I open it. There’s nothing inside except a plastic baggie with a photo of Ryan sealed within. Someone has defaced it with markers and Wite-Out to give him long eyelashes and a mouthful of Dracula teeth. There’s a strip of paper in Susannah’s neat printing that reads:
    Ryan has secrets, too .
    I close the box, let the rain wash away the grime, and tuck it under my arm. My mind revs, but then stalls. It’s as oversaturated as my T-shirt, unable to process the fact that the box in Susannah’s video link actually exists.
    Water eddies down the slope, pooling around my butt. Cold liquid streams off the metal contraption holding my leg together. I feel nothing but a vague burning itch as I laboriously make my way back inside the house.

C H A P T E R
f i v e
    Now
    I wake to quiet. Slivers of light creep across the clothes and papers strewn around my floor. I’m sprawled on the daybed, naked save for the strip of sheet draped over my privates like in a Renaissance nude. I don’t remember peeling off my soaked clothes or where I’d put them. My head vibrates like a rhapsody played on steel drums. My leg thrums, the swelling skin between the pins hot to my touch.
    Dad has left my daily fix of Vicodin on the mini-fridge with a glass of water, a banana, and a bowl of dry cereal. There is a carton of milk inside.
    I dress and chase down the two pills with gulps of water before the grumble of pain becomes a scream. I settle on the bed and wait for the Vikes to kick in and keep the gnawing pain at bay.
    Watching my chest rise and fall, I imagine Susannah wiping my brow with a cold compress. What I really need right now is a nurse. A very pretty nurse.
    My thoughts skim through lazy fields of memory and imagination. Susannah cavorts through the tall grass flinging flowers at me. My stomach rumbles. I’m starved.
    But I’d rather drink before the golden memories turn ugly, grow fangs and bite me.
    I consider reaching for the few remaining dregs of vodka in the canteen above my head, but nix that idea. Too much effort. The Vicodin will have to do.
    Hours drift by. If I don’t move too much, the numbing haze of my meds masks the grinding gears in my leg well enough that I’m almost comfortable. I reach for the Civil War history book on the night table. Mandatory reading for some, guilty pleasure for me. My thoughts flow back to a different age as I pore over battle trivia and primary documents. At first, I think the rapping at my door is artillery fire. The book flies from my hands.
    “Dude! It’s me!” says a muffled voice through the closed door. “The back door was open. Can I come in?”
    Ryan. “This isn’t a good time,” I call out weakly. My leg slowly heats like a sausage on a spit. I realize it’s been hours since I last took a painkiller. There’s an aching heaviness between my ribs. My hands are like weights at the ends of my arms.
    “You in there, Jer?” Ryan calls through the door.
    I try to answer, but before I have the chance, the door bursts open. Ryan peers at me, arms folded. “Dude. You look like crap.”
    “Thanks for clearing that up. I was just sitting around wondering if I really do look as shitty as I feel.”
    “Sorry.” Ryan smiles and sets a box on the night table. “The guys