Broken

And in his absence, she made herself read five chapters from the novel every night. Strangely, the book did manage to distract her a little from the solitude she'd found herself in for the last month. But that night had been too quiet, so quiet she could hear the street cat five storeys down from her apartment.

Outside her window, the cloudy sky loomed an eminent storm in the warm summer night. Seemingly, it was as if the rain gods knew, and in the way only nature could, to show empathy. Staring at her glass of water by the bedside table, she suddenly thought of the mugs that were broken in the last five months - there was the skinny hand-painted aboriginal art from Perth from four years ago, and the huge orange Tigger from Disneyland, and her favourite Kiss-motif from Melbourne from eons ago. How bizarre, she thought.

She went back to her book, half crossing her fingers that the pages would be her lullaby that night. Her book told the story of the protagonist, Anna, who has survived the accident and who so badly wanted to talk to her dead husband sought the help of a medium at a rundown warehouse in the heart of NYC where the free spiritual meetings were being held, and in turn, met some nice people, broken as they were but whom, she suspects, would help Anna to move on.

No such luck, she thought as she put down her book after the routine five chapters, still wide awake. Looking out of the window, the cloudy sky continued hanging. Nah, I don't think it'll rain today, she told herself. She thought of the story she'd just read and wondered how broken people, fictitious or real, cope with the brokenness in their lives. Her eyes wandered across the dimly lit bedroom and set gaze at the cross hung across the small room. Maybe...only Jesus is the answer, she thought.

She knew, for she was broken too.