Glass - Part 1

After pulling the passengers of QA915 from the mangled wreckage of their plane, the bemused and humbled Qantas administration quickly arranged for temporary accommodation. With the threat of lawsuits lingering on the horizon, they opted for the cheapest hotel available in the spectrum of high class establishments.

Therefore, the survivors were placed in the comfort of the Waterford.

The graze on Matt's forehead left him looking wild and disheveled. He swept his hair from his face as he waited at reception. Having just been released from the hospital, he was rattled by the bizarre actions of both the airport and hospital staff. 

"Oh my God!" cried a receptionist with wide eyes gripping the edge of the desk. "What happened to your face?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your face!" 

"I was in an accident" he replied.

"Heavy shit!" she responded. He watched uncomfortably as she felt her own forehead.

He reached for the registration sheet resting before the woman. As he signed it, his hair falling back down over his eyes, the wide eyed receptionist reached forward and tentatively ran her fingers across his graze. 

"That's fucked" she asserted, returning to her chair where she reveled in its ability to swivel. 

". . . There's rue for you, and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace o'Sundays; O, you must wear your rue with a difference." 

Caitlin Kearney's heart was pounding in her chest. Vigourously thrashing in an attempt to burst free of its cage. Fervor coursed through her veins as she madly bestowed flowers on the rest of the cast. 

She was Ophelia, not pure and sweet, but sensual and passionate. The stage lights practically cooked the stage but the energy of the performance was overwhelming. She fell to the floor, a disheveled heap; lamenting the loss of her father, her lover and her integrity. 

With grace and poise, she left the stage and drowned.

Backstage she enthusiastically downed her bottle of water, her celtic skin almost glowing in the dark. 

However, even as she drank, something irked her. The lack of dialogue on stage was somewhat unnerving. Instead, a thrumming from the amphitheater swelled exponentially. The rain became a storm; the storm became a waterfall. Peering from behind the curtains, upstage left, she stood in awe.
"Caitlin! Caitlin! Caitlin! . . ."
Tears welled.

In the ritzy bathroom of the hotel suite, Jess threw water on her face before pressing her fingers into her temples. Everything was covered by a thin layer of plaster sprayed forth from between the tiles at the moment of the blast. She swore repeatedly under her breath. 
As the tails of two dissolving disprin intertwined without an audience, Jess slipped on the most modest heels in her arsenal. 


Two floors above Nicholas Talbot writhed dramatically on the carpet of his suite. He clawed at his calves as growing pains, devoid of demands, threatened to cleave his legs apart. Teeth gnashed. His fingernails drew blood which trickled like molten tar. 
Suddenly, the pain was gone. Staring at the ceiling, he released his legs and lay, spread eagle. Beneath his now burgundy fingernails, the fibers reminded him of his location. Beads of sweat rolled across his body. Lines of sweet relief etched in his tired frame. 
He considered calling an ambulance. The fear of provoking another spasm, however, kept him firmly anchored to the ground. 
Nick's triceps trembled momentarily. He closed his eyes.

"This is ridiculous!"
The master of ceremonies glanced again at his watch. Twenty minutes had passed since his arrival and still the crowd continued their standing ovation. The applause swelled sporadically.
"Where's Caitlin?"
A crying usher replied in a joyous gargle;
"Backstage."
As the plump master scurried up the aisle, Caitlin sat overwhelmed in the throne of the king.
"What the hell happened?" he cried, barely audible over the audience.
"I don't know; I delivered my lines and they've been clapping ever since."
His eyes watered suddenly and hands met in a flurry.
"Classic! Beautiful! Perfect!"


On the street Jessica walked unevenly. Every step peppered with vertigo. Again, she rubbed her temple and looked only at the cobblestones. She navigated with great frustration, the labyrinthine route to the Australian embassy. Sporadically, she would halt and lean against the nearest wall; her loud muttering and uncouth visage attracting the attention of the pedestrians.

From across the road, a young man peered with aggressive opportunism at her expensive looking bag.
Gripping the bricks as though braving a cliff face, Jess pulled herself into an alley. Enchanted window shoppers walked past on the other side; framed by desultory dumpsters. Her heel slipped in the cobblestones; a mountaineer lost to an unseen crevasse. She roared in pain, falling between two of the noxious bins. She screwed her eyes, breathed deeply and clasped her ankle; unable to hear the soft approaching footsteps.
Something clawed at her brain; clawed and wailed. Even closed, her eyes seared white.
Suddenly, the stranger grabbed at the bag straps and tugged with vigour. After slipping into the concealed alcove, he growled savagely.
Jess struck blindly. She swung at the air, effectively blind. With her good leg she kicked wildly. The stranger grasped at her arm, eventually catching the second in the midst of her thrashing. Her foot met his jaw with great fury, the corner of the heal tearing the underside of his chin.
"Bitch!"
As the stranger charged, the pain abruptly disappeared. With an ethereal crash, the stranger fell back. Between the two, a translucent disc span rapidly. Both lying on the ground, they stared in awe at the apparition, shimmering with the faintest of blue tints. Crackling slightly, it disappeared.
She watched as her assailant snarled at leapt. His hand extended in the air, fingers splayed.
As his fingers first scraped at her neck, they once again heard the peculiar crackling whir, followed by a crunch . . . and a slurp.   
Her eyes opened to the spectacle. Warm blood oozed down her face and arms. The blue disc hovered inches before her, its orientation reversed. On the other side, the young man stared blankly at the ground, the disc embedded in his chest skipped like a circular saw in a block too dense. As she watched in shock, droplets of blood continued to spray her along with wall behind, as they were ejected like loose clay for a pottery wheel.