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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “the Breaking” Down in the Dirt (v134) (the January/February 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book A Stormy Beginning the Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2016 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Breaking

Katherine McCormick

    I look up and stare into his mother’s eyes. I can see for her, it is agony. A ripping, searing ache so like the pain the day he was born. But different because this time there will be no relief, no joy at day’s end.
    He is gone.
    And all the years between are gone. And there can be no more. I realize that her mouth is moving, she is shouting at me with her razor tongue but I cannot hear, cannot feel the deep cuts she intends.
    And in that moment I know.
    There is nothing left. All that remains is the absence of everything that came before – the negatives to the warm skin under my fingers, the smile that pulled my heart and made it beat a little faster, the building desire of a long kiss.
    Tears burn my face and drip into my mouth, salty and nauseating, too many to wipe away. They keep coming, from nowhere and everywhere, inside me. Wet and warm. Reminding me that I am alive and what is lying there, dry and brittle, is not. But they do not bring relief.
    They don’t penetrate my skin.
    I force myself to look at his face, away from the iodine-stained sheets and the tubes, study his lips, his eyes, his freckled skin. But I can’t find him.
    I drop the dead hand and run out of the room. Ignoring their shouts, I keep going, down two flights of stairs and through the revolving hospital door.
    I had done this.
    He was dead because of me, because of what I could not do. I close my eyes and fill my lungs with the icy fall air that prickles and stings. But even with my eyes closed, I can feel their eyes on me, looking down in judgment from the second floor.
    Where he died.
    My ear catches one sound, and then another and another – the faraway laughter of a child, cars on the highway, the scolding trill of an angry bird, a man barking orders into a cell phone.
    So I turn away from the burn of their afflicted eyes and walk onto the green that stretches between the tall buildings. Wiping my tears on the back of my hand, I slump to the ground.
    And I sit, silent and staring – at nothing, at everything.
    I want to feel the judgment of his God marking me a sinner. I want to share in his mother’s agony, her despair. I want to be furious at myself, at him, at the unjust perversions of the universe.
    Instead I dig my fingers into the cold grass until I feel the dirt beneath my nails.
    I had hesitated. Waited too long to save him. And then it was too late. And all that remains are the echoes of his mother’s accusations ringing in my ears.
    I dig into the cold earth until my hand is buried and I feel an earthworm squirm between my fingers.
    Chilled and shaking, I rise and cross to the parking lot, my arms wrapped around each other in a pathetic attempt at an embrace. I walk until I stand at the crossroads, the center of the everyday battle where the rush hour cars and trucks and buses fight dirty in their struggle to enter and exit the highway. They shout at me, scream with their horns at me. But I stand my ground.
    Holding the earthworm tight, I stare into the oncoming traffic. And take one more step.

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