A Shattered Moment (Fractured Lives 1)

His face was difficult to make out in the dim light, but he was definitely younger with a boyish look. I couldn’t help wondering if he was even old enough to be here. No offense to him, but the last thing I wanted was someone who was new to the job.

He continued to ask me questions while he took my vitals. After assuring me they would have me out soon, he turned to Zach, who was not in my line of vision.

“Is he dead?” My voice was thick as I braced myself to hear the words I assumed to be true. The EMT didn’t answer, which made it much worse. Tears fell hot and fast from my eyes. I was stuck in a coffin with all of my friends. Why was this happening?

two

Mac

“You sorta stole my seat,” he chuckled, pointing to the backpack I had missed that was resting beside the chair. Judging by the array of papers spread out on the table, he’d been hard at work.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” Heat crept up my neck to my face as I fumbled around to locate my cane, which had slipped to the ground. After finding it, I struggled to get to my feet with my right leg still quivering. I couldn’t tell if he recognized me. The last time he’d seen my face, it was bruised and battered. I wasn’t even sure why I cared, to tell you the truth. I shook my head to clear the sudden cobwebs that had muddled my thoughts.

He gently pushed me back into the seat. “It’s no biggie. I can move to another chair,” he said, reaching for his backpack.

“I don’t mind moving,” I mumbled even though my legs were begging me to stay put.

“Please. I’m serious. You stay. This is my first time trying to study in the library, but I’ve discovered I’m easily distracted.”

I nodded my head, not sure what the appropriate answer would be. I looked away, hoping that would be the end of our exchange and he would move on. Hearing his voice again was stirring up the demons I worked hard to keep at bay.

I exhaled gratefully when he began to gather his papers.

“So, how have you been?” he asked.

Crap balls. That answered my question. Of course he recognized me. My friends and I had been splashed across the news for weeks after the accident. The media decided to make us the faces of No Texting While Driving campaigns.

Not that we were the culprits. My friends and I were the victims of a crime that was as illegal as drinking and driving, yet everyone seemed to do it. Everyone except Zach, who refused even to talk on his phone while he was driving. Even after all of us pitched in and bought him a Bluetooth earpiece for his phone, he refused to use it. That was the ironic thing about our accident. I couldn’t help wondering what had been so important that the truck driver felt the need to text while he was driving a big rig. Was he telling his wife he’d be home late, or maybe reminding his kids to finish their homework, or was he texting a buddy about going out? Did he regret that text now? Did he even realize or care about the lives he had shattered into a million pieces? There were so many questions, but no real answers.

“I, uh—” I tried to answer his question, but the tall bookshelves surrounding us began to close in on me. I was in no shape to flee, but I could feel the all too familiar signs of a panic attack approaching.

Panic attacks had become my body’s way of dealing with any uncomfortable situation since the accident. They were sneaky bastards, creeping in when I least wanted them to. Like the time Mom and Dad helped me get into a car for the first time after the accident, or when I drove by the scene of an accident six months after I was released from the hospital. I had become an expert at knowing when it was happening. My breathing would become labored, I would sweat profusely, and it was as if there was a voice in my head telling me to run or hide. Consequently, it had been nearly six months since my last attack and I had naïvely convinced myself they were gone for good.

Trying to get a handle on myself before things got too embarrassing, I moved my eyes past the EMT, finding a focal point on the wall just over his shoulder. Joan, my therapist, had given me tips and advice on how to avoid a full-blown attack before it sank its claws into me. It was all about focusing on something you could control. For me, it worked to count for as long as it took to calm down. I had reached twenty when I could feel the stranglehold of the attack slowly releasing me.

“You okay?” the EMT asked, stepping directly into my field of vision. It felt like déjà vu. My eyes became fixated by the soft comforting brown of his pupils. My breathing returned to normal as I took in the genuine concern on his face. This was the second time he had calmed me from a near-panicked state.

“Fine—I’m fine.” I wasn’t sure which of us I was trying to convince. I looked down to find the water bottle I had been searching for sitting in my hand.

He perched on the corner of the table he’d just cleared off. “Sorry. It’s a hazard of the job. I’m always overstepping boundaries by being too helpful. My mom says I’ve been trying to save things since I was four years old when I tried to reattach a lizard’s tail with superglue. I’d say she was exaggerating, but the picture she snapped of me with the lizard superglued to my finger speaks for itself.” He laughed, flashing a dimpled smile.

I surprised myself by returning his smile.

“You have a beautiful smile.”

My mouth dropped, as did my stomach. He was a liar.

I didn’t need his pity. I knew my smile was anything but attractive now. The shattered glass from the windshield had made sure of that, leaving a thin scar from the corner of my lip and down my chin. It had whitened a bit over the past year, but was still noticeable.

“Gee, thanks,” I said sarcastically as I grabbed my bag.

He sat watching me with fascination, which only added to my aggravation. In my haste to stand up to leave, I forgot about the water bottle, which d

ropped from my hand and rolled away, coming to a rest beneath the table. I blurted out a string of swear words that would have made a biker blush, gaining me several disapproving looks from everyone except the EMT, who only chuckled. Shouldering my bag, I gripped my cane and limped away, leaving my water bottle and the EMT behind.

My leg complained bitterly as I hobbled toward another seating area on the far side of the room. The chairs were situated near a high-traffic area, making it less desirable, but it would have to do.

Mr. Persistent followed me, handing over the water bottle I had dropped. “Hey, you didn’t have to leave because of me.”