Broken Glass
By Jenn Young

Note: I got in trouble with my teacher for writing this... just warning ya! ^^

Foreword: Though this story is written purely for educational purposes, I have gone and poured my heart and soul into it. I suppose that's the curse of the writer. This story is born from the fact that I think one of the most horrifying things is to be abused, both physically and sexually. It can entirely destroy even the strongest of people's will and confidence. I, myself, would not know anything about this, but I read a lot, and a lot of things I really shouldn't until I'm older. But hey, books and FanFiction are about the only thing my parents don't censor on me, so why not take advantage of it! ^^
Also, I do suppose this story in it's nature is, er, graphic, and generally more mature than something one would expect from a grade eight student. Don't say you haven't been amply warned...

Dedications: Okies, first and foremost, I'd like to dedicate this to my good e-friend, Goo. Just because she made me cry with her beautiful Digimon songfic about Yamato's self desatructive nature, 'Acoustic #3', and has written a song based on my fic 'My Fallen Angel', so I've decided to repay the favor by dedicating this to her.
Next of all, to Rusty, the best side kick a fourteen year old, Neon Pink Gel Pen toting, webmistress could have, for reminding me a writer's work is never done, and somehow, that made me STOP working on my fic 'Shukumei Shi Hametsu', and actually getting this in ON TIME. He also wished me gracious luck when I realized I had gone over the edge, considering this is an english project.
Then, to my dear friends Leslie and Matthew. Leslie: For telling em this story was amazing and wonderful, and to keep writing it, or she would never return my copy of 'Grandia'. Matthew: Not only because he constantly says he wishes he could write like me, but because HIS horror story was about a Schizophrenic Nacropheliac (Geeze, we really should NOT know what Nacropheliacs are... I blame it on 'The X-Files'... oh, how I love thee! ^^), so it made me realize this really isn't all that bad...
And, as always, my favorite author J.R.R Tolkein and the book that changed my life (The Lord of the Rings) that made writing something I wanted to do, and my grade four teacher, Mrs. Eisner for helping me realize my talent.
Arigato, aiishimertu minna! ^^ *takes deep bow*

She ran a finger over the last stitch. Delicately, it was still tender, even after nine months.
The largest piece of glass had been lodged sorely in her cheek, ripping away at flesh and sinew. The only thing the doctors could manage was extensive plastic surgery, which she could've done without.
To the casual observer, she would appear the same, but everyday, that daunting mirror caught her eye, reminding her troubled mind her face was not as it once was, and never would be.
The same face stared back. Brilliant blue eyes full of carefully guarded emotion, crowned by light blonde that fell in delicate folds around her thin shoulders.
She sighed, discontented.
Arms incircled themselves halfway around her bloated stomach.
"We've been getting a tad vain lately, ne Makeru-Chan?"
The words were whispered softly and lovingly into her ear.
Makeru smiled a tight grin "Would you be surprised? With this stomach? You can't even wrap your overly-genki arms all the way around me anymore."
"Oh, do I sense resentment?"
Makeru rested her hands across her tummy. She wasn't overly sentimental like most pregnant women. She didn't squeal with glee at every 'kick' of the infant in her womb. Tayoru did enough of that for the both of them.
"No, I'm not resentful. In fact, I do believe this baby could be the best thing that's ever happened to us."
She could feel her husband's grimace through her back. Spinning around ungracefully, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and gazed into his eyes, only to discover that glazed over look he often aquired when he was thinking too hard.
"Tayoru..." she murmured, "Are you sure you're okay with this?"
Tayoru suddenly snapped back to reality, "Huh?" a blank expression washed a wave across his face.
"About it not being your baby?"
Tayoru drew away slightly, brushing a nervous hand through his rough, chestnut hair, amber eyes flashing with worry, "N... no. Not at all. Why?"
Makeru face the mirror again, "No reason." She flipped a few strands of blonde behind her shoulder, and narrowed her eyes to azure slits.
She shook it off, and masked a smile, "I'm fins, just a little... tired. Come on. Let's go to bed."
Tayoru's eyes lit up, "To... bed?" he implied slyly.
Makeru smacked him affectionately in the back of the head, muttering about Hentai Baka's and the trouble they cause all the way to the bedroom.

Broken images...
She shivered, so she wrapped her arms around herself...
But she wasn't cold.
It hurt.
Broken images...
Of herself...
Displaced pieces, not only of her face and body, but mind and soul.
Cracked and spilt on the floor for all to see.
But she wanted them to see...
It was different this time. She wanted someone, anyone to see, to know what was going on inside her.
She was alone.
She reached out, cautiously extending a finger to touch the distorted image that should've been her face.
It dug into her skin, giving her a shock.
"Baka..." she muttered to herself. Now she was bleeding again.
Bleeding again...
She gasped, breath caught in her throat. She coughed, blood spilling from her mouth. Bitter and crimson.
She raised a weak arm into her blurring field of vision, blinking once, horrified by what she saw.
It wasn't the painfully red substance running in trickles to her fingers, then to the ground; but the cracks, jagged and precise, like a jigsaw puzzle, that marked a pattern across her pale skin.
Like broken glass...
She was falling. Down, apart, away. Drowning, sinking in a sea of her own blood and despair...

Makeru shot up, tangled in her sheets and soaked with sweat.
Frantic, she glanced at her arms, thankfully, finding them unscathed.
But she still felt pain. It was sharp and crisp, but she was still too woozy and shaken to realize where and what was hurting.
She shifted her gaze towards Tayoru, a smile tugging at her dry lips.
Sprawled out and snoring. He really wasn't the kind of person who was meant to share a bed with someone. It was cute... in a moronic sort of way...
That's when she noticed the steady drip of blood, causing a slow stain to spread across the white bed-linen.
She gasped, and clutched a hand to her face, drawing it away to find it coated in blood.
Oh god... oh god..." she rushed to the bedside mirror, groping for the small bed-side lamp. A second later, the room was flooded in dim, yellow-tinted light.
It was no feat to notice the problem. Her stitch, the last one, on her cheek, had burst open, blood staining her face red and trickling down her neck.
She hated blood. Warm, sticky and putrid, stench of the dying.
Much like...
She searched her mind for a substance as overwhelmingly unpleasant as blood, but the blank prevailed.
"M... Makeru?"
Tayoru's groggy voice floated into Maker's ears, causing a sense of urgency to paing in her chest. She despised looking weak, or appearing in need of help.
"It... it's nothing... I'm just being vain again..." a nervous giggle.
She felt a presence behind her, and hands flew to her face.
"Makeru, take you hands away from your face." Tayoru ordered softly.
This was ridiculous? Why was she trying to hide? It was just a cut. It wasn't even her fault.
Tayoru wouldn't be angry, not like Kizu. No, he wasn't like Kizu, who would hit and scream, then be upset if she was hurt.
"Be stronger Makeru. It was just a little smack!"
She was strong! She was raised by a strong man and a stern woman. She wasn't weak, not like he said she was. That's what daddy had always said. That she was strong.
"M... Makeru? Are you bleeding!?" Tayoru reached an arm around to gently remove his wife's hands.
"NO!" she screamed, wrenching herself viciously from his grip "DON'T HIT ME AGAIN!"
Tayoru's eyes widened, and his face fell in disbelief of what he had just heard.
Don't hit me again?
That's what she had said.
Don't hit me again!?
When had he ever hit her!?
Makeru scrambled across the room, disturbing various knickknacks scattered across the disorganized dresser.
She cowered against the walls, trying to dig her nails into the generic, cream colored plaster.
Her sapphire irises were flooded with confusion and a wild fear, like that of a caged animal in a zoo, where small children would throw their candy wrappers, eyes darting around the room wildly for an escape.
Tayoru placed his hands in front of his diplomatically- it wasn't the fist time something like this had happened, and he was quite sure it wouldn't be the last, but still, he was worried as always. Makeru might hurt herself, or even worse, the baby, in one of these fits of rage. Tayoru wasn't sure he could handle losing either, especially not now, after they had come so far.
"Makeru..." he whispered softly, as not to frighten her. A loud voice would only remind her too much of the abuse.
"Get away." She hissed, "I don't want anymore of your stupid excuses. I don't want to be hit again."
She was going through a relapse. Some kind of metal state where she would relieve a buried memory, as if it were happening again.
"I'm not going to hurt you." Tayoru continued, struggling to push the ball of fear in his stomach down and snuff it out of existence. He had to keep calm. He took a cautious step forwards.
"That's what you always say. Then you do it again."
Of course... a realization clicked in Tayoru's mind.
"I'm not Kizu." He stated firmly.
Brief recognition flashed through the woman's eyes, but was quickly extinguished.
"Get away from me!"
They were standing no more than a foot apart when Tayoru dared to reach out.
Makeru stared at his hand a moment, then slowly slipped her own across it.
A smile crept up Tayoru's lips, and he gently drew her towards him.
Then, something changed. Makeru's eyes shifted violently, and then narrowed.
"NO!" she cried "NEVER AGAIN!"
She pulled away, and shoved Tayoru towards the dresser. He slammed against it hard, gasping hoarsely.
This was definitely her worse fit. They got worse everytime. Before, she would just yell. Later, she began locking herself in a closet, or the bathroom. The previous time, she had thrown her compact at him.
Makeru had never worn makeup before. Not in the time Tayoru had known her at least. It wasn't until she started dating Kizu. Something had changed in her within those few months. Everyone just assumed it was love-sickness, or something. No one would ever have guessed abuse.
The compact had missed him, but the tiny mirror on the inside had shattered into a million tiny pieces.
Just the sight of the jagged shards snapped her back to herself.
Tayoru flickered to his senses as he heard a tortured creak. He turned his eyes upwards, and immeditly widened them in shock. The huge, rectangular mirror that sat on the dresser's surface wobbled unsteadily.
Tayoru leapt out of the way as the mirror came crashing down with a thunderous roar.
The aftermath was the tinkling of miniscule glass pieces, shimmering like snowflakes in the hazy light.
Terror crept through Makeru's veins, seeing the subject of her nightmares spilled onto the floor like the very contents of her soul. Polluting one of the few safe havens she had left in theis world.
She allowed a constricted wheeze to escape her lips before losing conciousness.


She slowly poked the door open, a pit of fear billowing to her throat. Suddenly irrational worries ripped through her mind like a wild fire.
What if Kizu was home?
He could've taken the day off work, or come home early. Her plan was too perfect. nothing ever worked just like *that*.
The door fell the rest of the way open, revealing a darkened, and thankfully empty, living room.
She sighed heavily of relief, shutting the door hastily. She strided towards the bedroom with purpose, when a voice stopped her.
"What are you doing home so early?" it wondered harshly.
Makeru spun around to face Kizu. He must have been hiding behind the door.
"I could ask you the same question. And alone, in the dark." Makeru retorted. She really didn't feel like this right now. She wasn't scared yet, but she realized with the dim bitterness of expirence, that this could, and probably WOULD get really ugly.
Kizu's mouth tuirned upwards in a cruel grin "Because I knew you were leaving today."
Makeru's eyes widened. She bit her lip, "Kizu, you can't stop me."
Kizu stepped forwards and grabbed her wrist, "Yes, I can."
Makeru yelped as he twisted her arm and pulled her so close, she could feel his breath on her face. That was the thing. Kizu always had nice breath. It smelled like mints, and the fresh snow on a crisp winter day. Kissing him was always pleasant, but it was the furthest thing from Makeru's mind.
"I can keep you here if I want." he hissed threatingly, lowering his lips to her ear, "You've toyed with my heart. You just used me, and now you're leaving. That's hurts baby, really. So now, I'm going to return you the favour."
Makeru panicked, knowing all too well what was coming next.
She tore her arm from his clamp-like grip and sprinted for the bedroom, locking the door.
Desperate and shuddering, she struggled to find the right numbers in her mind, and communicate them to her fingers, which barely held the phone, shaken by the violent rattle of the doorknob.
"Come on..." she urged silently, as the monotonous dial tone rang painfully in her ear.
The door burst open as the operator finally picked up.
"Hello!" And overly cheerful voice bubbled into the receiver "This is Kyoto General Hospital. How may I help you."
Makeru opened her mouth, but was jerked away from the phone fiercly.
"Don't even..."
Makeru used her momentum to throw off his superior strength, but it wasn't enough.
He took hold of her slight form, and began shaking her roughly, screaming something incoherent.
Makeru clenched her teeth, lashing out with her nails.
They struck like claws, tracing four red lines across the man's clean-shaven cheek.
Kizu howled in pain, shoving his former girlfriend away. She slammed into a desk, pens and books crashing over her head, and papers fluttering gracefully to the creamy carpet.
Kizu, hand still clasped to his cheek, turned a dangerous gaze onto Makeru, who was still recovering from a rather large collage text-book.
He bent over, grabbing her by the collar. Her head rolled back, a sign she was barely concious, but he jerked her to her feet anyways.
"I'll show you bitch!" he growled, smacking her several times before throwing her entire weight into the full size mirror that leaned comfortably against the wall beside the closet.
The mirror shattered on contact, driving hundreds of dagger sharp chunks into Makeru's back.
She gagged once, before collapsing onto the blood-soaked ground, her body crumpling like a broken rag doll.
The last thing she heard before drifting into a sea of blackness, was the faint whine of sirens, approaching in the distance.


Tayoru gaze longingly at his comatose wife. She had been asleep for the past week. the doctor catiouned if she stayed this way much longer, she might lose the baby.
Tayoru prayed for the best, he always had, the eternal optomist he was... or TRIED to be at least.
But this time... this time, things didn't seem to be working themselves out. For the first time in his life, Tayoru found himself questioning God, and His predetermined plan... if there even ever was a predetermined plan.
Maybe... just maybe, humans had to choose their own path in life, find their own way out of the muddy ditches they fell into. It wasn't what Tayoru was taught, but it seemed more likely than the unchangable fate.
How could God let such a woman, and her baby died?
It was a question everyone asked themselves once in their life, but not one many considered. Really, truly considered.
If God put us on this earth, fashioned after Himself, wouldn't He allow them the freedom of making their own choices? Even if it meant leaving them to stumble on their own in the darkness without a guiding hand, blind and helpless? How would humans evolve otherwise?
The true strength of humans, perhaps, came from relying on others of the species, which is why Tayoru knew he had to protect Makeru now. Protect her from the pain, the memories, Kizu, and to an extent, herself.
How could he protect her... if he couldn't even reach her?
She was so close, but a million miles away. The doctor had said her brainwaves were erratic. She was having nightmares... or even worse, memories.
He couldn't lose her, and he couldn't lose the baby, but there was nothing he could do...
But watch... and wait...

(we have reached the drop off point, we are about to officially enter water over your head, therefore WAAAAAY over mine... *-_-)

The pain wasn't always coupled with images. Sometimes it was just a smell, or a touch.
Like the smell of her childhood bedroom in the summer. Musty and warm, sweet with the tang of sunscreen.
She used to sit at her desk, devouring book after book.
She had always been like that, a tad anti-social. She remembered all her friends getting on at her about it, especially Tayoru. He was such a thick-skulled jock sometimes, and couldn't understand for the life of him why any girl under eleven, and therefore without the responsibility of middle school, would want to spend all her time with a book instead of a baseball bat or a soccerball.
But she loved the breeze in her room at summer time.
The faded blinds flapping lightly in the wind, as the scent of hot teriyaki flavoured beef wafted through the crack in the door, which was decorated with a brightly colored fish, her name painted in red.
Her favorite color was once red.
She could recall, with no difficulty, every taste, smell, sight and sound of those summer days.
The nights were a different story...
It was always so dark. Everything else was there though...
Especially the feeling...
The horrible feeling of rough hands roaming her body, uninvited, gripping her back, cupping her budding breasts.
That was the pain.
Was it her father? Or just one of the annonymus strangers who found their way into her mother's bed for a week or two, until Ms. Shoka grew bored of them.
But... why?
Whoever they were, what right did they have? Why would they even consider it?
Makeru's mother was considered one of the most beautiful women in Kyoto. She was a lawyer, and a damn good one, but for all her talent, she was still recognized for her looks.
With a lover like that, who could ever even think of having their way with her pre-adolescent daughter?
"Teishi..." she heard her own voice, as it had been back then, plead desperately, "Kudasi, kudasi. kudasi, kudasi, kudasi..." she repeated, she cried and begged, but he didn't stop.
Sometimes, it was Kizu.
Now, it was ALWAYS Kizu. She couldn't get his scent from her body, no matter how hard she tried. She hated sex, it was dirty, and impure. It wasn't romance, it was necessity of survival, and a source of pain. But she had let Kizu take her, that one night when she had had a little too much wine.
She was having his baby, but Tayoru would be the father.
How long had she known Tayoru?
How long had he been there?
He knew. He must have. The Ikari's lived in the same apartment building. She could remember early one morning, running to his home, her tiny feet, pounding on the unwashed carpet as salty tears streamed down her bruised cheeks.
He answered the door. He had always been an early riser... on weekends at least.
She had thrown himself into his arms, confiding in him between sobs.
And he just held her.
Just held her....

"M... Makeru? Makeru-kun? What are you doing here so early in the morning. It's... are you... crying?"
"Makeru-chan? What's wrong?"
"He... he... hurt me..."
"... what? Who hurt you? Was it that stupid kid from the school across town. I'll have to beat him..."
"No... it wasn't... it was... it... he... I...."
"... daddy..."
"... daddy hurt me."

Tayoru slipped his fingers gracefully under her chin, and tipped her head upwards, smiling comfortingly.
But they weren't children anymore. He was as he was now. Her husband, Tayoru Ikari. Deep brown eyes scanning her soul, digging into those dark holes she would always hide her true self in.
... and she saw something else. Something besides the total love and devotion Tayoru had displayed to her as long as she could remember. She saw... resentment.
"Slut." he hissed, "You gave yourself away. You should've known he'd just use you. You could've been an angel, who rose above what happened, but now your nothing more than a cheap guitar, letting yourself be played like that."
Makeru stopped breathing, the shock was so great.
He removed his arms from around her, like she was something infectuous, then turned his back, and without looking back... walked away...
Makeru reached out an arm, a child again.
"TAYORU!!!!!" she screamed.
"HELP! SOMEONE! KUDASI! I NEED YOU! I'M NOT.... I'M NOT... I.... I.... I don't...."
All there was...
Was the darkness.
It engulfed her, until all of eternity was black and empty.


There was no reason to go on...
Was there?
She was a broken soul, with a worn body. No one needed her, no one wanted her.
Even the love of her life, the on who promised he would protect her as long as he drew breath, had abandoned her.
Except... the baby.
The baby born of a mistake, in the stupor of alcohol.
She inteded to bring the unfortunate child into a life and household of love...
But she realized now, that the baby had no more right to exist than she did. It would only end up as miserable and weary as Makeru herself was now.

Makeru's eyes flickered open. It took a moment for them to focus properally, but she was in the hospital. Of course she would be.
She turned her head, an ache echoing grumpily down her neck and spine, to scan the room.
A window...
A large window. And judging from the scenery, high up as well.
With great effort, Makeru lifted herself from the uncomfortable stretcher, and eased herself to the floor.
The metal tiles were cold against her bare feet. She straightened herself, surveying the room with aq more attentive eye. There was a small, yellowish TV in the corner. Probably black and white. There were four chairs pushed up to the wall, slung across three of them, snored Tayoru.
He had abandoned her...
The window was open, allowing a whiff of crisp, fresh night air to clear the stench of the dying from the stuffy room.
That window was looking more and more inviting every moment. Grasping walls, instuments, anything, she gfradually made her way to the window, and looked down.
About ten stories.
Not really thinking, Makeru used what little energy she had to force the stiff latch forwards.
the window flew open, and Makeru was faced by a tumotuous whirlwind of wind, rain and the sounds of traffic. Her only lifeline in the chaos, was the thick temperature pipe she gripped fearfully with both her hands.
"Makeru!? What are you doing!?" Tayoru's panicked voice rose above the storm.
Makeru turned her face to him, "I'm ending it..." she murmured, a faraway look on her delicate features.
"Makeru, get away from there!" Tayoru exclaimed, taking a few quick steps towards his wife, but Makeru shook her head.
"Move again, Tayoru, and I'll jump."
Tayoru stopped, dead in his tracks, his face draining to the color of chalk, "God, no..."
Makeru's eyes were wild. No like a wild caged animal, but like a tiger, once caged, but now free, in the jungle of it's birth. She chuckled softly, soon crescendoing to a full and shirll laugh as she swung her heavy body out over the ledge, "Don't you understand Tayoru? I'm not needed here! Who will care! Not even the doctors will mourn my dead body. Me, nor the child I carry within me!"
"I'm free! I haven't been free since..." she grinned, "Since before I weas born, even then, I was a slave to my mother's demanding job. Now tell me, Tayoru, since you think you know me so well, give me a reason to live."
Tayoru's face was beaded with sweatdrops of desperation, "Kudasi, Makeru, please, don't do this to me."
"What. You don't care either. you just think I'm a cheap slut, like my mother!"
Tayoru stared a moment, before becoming animated "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING!"
"Just like my mom, right?"
Tayoru shook his head violently, "Makeru, you don't know what you're saying! Kudasi, just listen to me! I KNOW what happened, I understand what it did to you. I KNOW you didn't want it, from either. I love you, Makeru, kudasi. I wouldn't have married you if it were any different, if I thought so. It's what my mother thought, but did I listen to her!?" there were tears, tears of long suffering, burning shimmering streaks down his tanned cheeks, "Kudasi, kudasi, kudasi, kudasi..."
These words, his pleading mantra, broke through her wall of sudden insanity.
It was the same...
The same thing she repeated when... when *he* was with her...
She was...
She was hurting him...
"Kudasi Makeru... You've been in my life so long... I can't live without you."
Makeru's lip quivered.
She WAS needed.
She was needed by her love, her childhood sweetheart. The boy next door...
She was needed by the one who promised to protect her. He would... he would protect her, because she understood now, they were a part of each other, and the child... she had no right to drag it down with her. It deserved this chance... that same chance she deserved.
She smiled, a genuine smile. It felt strange, her face not used to being manipulated so, a took a step forwards...
She suddenly lost her balance.
She shrieked in terror as he foot slid down the window frame, and found only the chilling night air for console.
She grasped the pipe tighter, but it was too thick for her tiny, shivering hands.
As soon as Tayoru realized what was happening, he lept forwards to grab her, but she slipped just beyond his grasp.
It was if, all of time stood still as the two stared into each other's eyes, understanding...
She was to die...
And Makeru Ikari plummeted 10 stories into the busy Kyoto traffic.

o w a r i

Afterword: Oh geeze, I hope that's not nearly as painful to read as it was to write. *sweatdrop* ^^ Really, I apologize. When I write, I just go into this total daze, when my fingers move across the keyboard and I don't even realize what pouring onto the page. Then afterwords, I reread it, and I'm just like "What the #^$#^%$!? Did I REALLY write that!?" So, I hope that explains something. Also, it COULD be because I've had WAAAAAAAAY more than my recommended intake of 'The X-Files', 'Digimon', and 'Gundam Wing' this weekend, and watching shows about depressed, screwed up ppls makes you want to write depressive, screwed up things! Which is why I try to make these author's notes as lighthearted as possible. A lot of my readers have said it helps, so, uh, I hope it does! ^^ All in all, hope you enjoyed (no, really, I hope you enjoyed, I'm edgy about passing this in, but I have nothing else!)
Jennifer Lynne Young
Quote of the day:
"I'm not going insane in a sane world, I'm going sane in a sane world!" (how suiting...)