His fault. Of course it was his fault. Right? Oh how horribly pitiful I am right now, sitting on the floor with his picture in one hand. No, there are none of the cliché tears running down my red, white, and blackened blue face, there are only dry, heaving sobs that shake my now frail body and leave me gasping desperately for oxygen. Broken glass from the mirror above the mantle lies around me, creating a rainbow of sparkling shards. It is not beautiful. Dizzy, spinning, intoxicated eyes of mine see and shun the glassy, shining spectacle, and all I can think of is how much I hate this day, how much I hated that day, how much I hated him, and how much I absolutely despise myself. I cannot help but contemplate, was he rebelling recklessly, or was there method in the madness that seemed to overtake that small figure of his? My eyes are bloodshot and blackened by bruises, skin pale, any strength I once had has fallen to him. Curse it all. I don't even care anymore. Smashing the treasured trophy of triumphant smiles in the long gone past and watching it shatter in to a trillion brilliant tiny pieces as I spring upwards in my rage feels so good, so uplifting. I feel tiny bits of the glass from the picture frame fly up and embed themselves in my once unmarred and unmarked skin, making my spine shiver in a curious, masochistic, twisted form of delight. I smash the picture with my foot, and scream not from the pain of glass but from the pain that is ripping my heart to shreds. As I look down I see not a destroyed memory but a crushed frame, crushed hopes and dreams, and my crushed self. Suddenly sick to my stomach- probably the alcohol- I collapse onto the shards of sharp glass and vomit onto the floor and many things on it. But not the picture, oh no, not on the sacred picture. I stare at it, angered, ashamed, and my eyes settle on his smile. Smiling… that foolish man… the audacity to smile, laugh, mock me. I howl painfully, and finally let the first of many, many tears spill out of my now dulled eyes.