Missing Pieces – Part 2

“Ruth.” I hear a man’s voice from the other room.

The bottle slips from my hands and shatters on the floor.

“Who is it?” I turn my head from side to side as my eyes flutter.

“What was that?” A man screams over a commercial on Titleist golf balls.

“It fell out of my hand.” I look down. Look at all the pieces. “I found the pieces!”

“Aw, geez, Ruth,” the man says.

“I found my pieces! I found them.” I stomp my feet. I feel a cool pain on the bottoms of my feet. Then they burn. I keep stomping my feet ‘til my feet slide away. I reach for the counter but can’t grab hold. My feet sweep out from underneath me, and I pound the floor with my backside. I try to lift myself up and grab at the pieces. But I only slip and my hands begin to burn. “Help me. Please. Help.” The floor turns pink as my blood mixes with the brown liquid on the floor. My hands and feet continue to burn as I crawl with clenched fists into the living room.

The man looks at me with raised eyebrows. I can see the whites of his eyes. “Ruth. Are you all right?” He turns the sound down on the TV.

“Help me,” is all I can say. “I don’t understand: the pieces hurt me.”

“Damn it, Ruth.” He reaches for the phone beside him. “Now I’ve gotta call for a nurse.”

Posted in Fiction, Short Stories