_{Story by [Linderel].
Written for the Shattered Painting contest.
Bring on the Wonder by Susan Enan.}

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· · · · ·
I fell through the cracks at the end of our street
let's go to the beach, get the sand through our feet
Bring on the wonder, bring on the song
I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long
· · · · ·

She stared around, remorse churning like bile in her gut. The devastation was nigh absolute; she could still hear the flames roaring, feel the memory of their heat pressing against her skin. It had been two days since her world had collapsed, yet she still couldn't quite grasp what had happened - what she had done. Her stomach tightened at the thought, then gave a nasty lurch. She stumbled on a piece of charred furniture, found herself on her knees, lips trembling and palms sore. Then she caught a glimpse of the thing directly in her line of sight, innocently leaning against the wall, and recoiled, crying out in animalistic terror. Shaking, whimpering like a child, she backed away and fled the house. She felt its shadow on her in the bright midday sun, heard too much in the crunch of her boots against the thick snow, but didn't look back once.

Some weeks later, a short news item in the paper informed her that an old, abandoned, burnt-down house had been sold and was now being thoroughly renovated. She folded the paper neatly, ignored the trembling in her hands, and finished her coffee. The image of cracked glass flashed across her mind, unbidden. When she left for work, pieces of the hallway mirror glinted in the sunlight streaming through the unwashed windows.

Headlines screamed their message to the world: the badly burnt skeleton of a small child had been found amongst rubble in the house. She smashed her china that morning and left the shards where they lay on top of the crumpled paper. She leaned over the sink in her kitchen, gripping its edges tightly with her cut-up fingers, and retched until her whole body felt as if it was on fire. She did not go to work; she sat at the table, hands folded delicately in her lap, and thought of a painting beneath a cracked frame.

Lighting all the candles around the house took some time, but when she finally blew out the last match, the sight she beheld was truly beautiful: a thousand little points of light twinkling at her, flickering, winking their understanding. She turned reddened eyes to the painting she had procured; it had taken quite a lot of work, but she had managed to track it down and bring it home. The frame now stood on the mantle above the hearth. Peculiar, she had thought, that the only thing to completely escape the fire would have been this painting. Certainly it had no real value, and it was a small wonder it had not been simply thrown away with the rest. The picture was a childish rendering of a blissful family moment at a beach, dog and all. She smiled softly. It had been a particularly lovely day, a much-needed respite from the dreariness of her mundane life. It had been a shame to have to leave that brief moment of happiness, although in retrospect, she supposed it had already been too late. She took the frame in her hands and gazed at it, still smiling softly, and almost absently reached out to tip the largest candle.

Outside, snow fell from the darkening sky and filled the cracks in the pavement.

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