A/N: Hi! I regret to inform you that I believe I have officially decided to abandon the other stories due to a lack of creativity on that end. Instead, I offer you a new story that I intend to finish. I hope you don't decide to find out where I live and crucify me. That would hurt a lot and you wouldn't win that way either.

N.B: Please note that the bold parts are there to show juxtaposition in the story and are not necessarily known to the characters.


Chapter 1: Shattered Glass

She stared blankly at her laptop monitor. The words that adorned her screen were the equivalent of what her four year-old son could come up with: Her cat purred as the letter flew out of her hands. The contents of the note were quite odd indeed.

'Great,' she thought, 'What does the letter say?' It was a question that had an answer that was unbeknownst to anyone in the cosmos, not even her. Surely it would come to her eventually. But eventually was not soon enough. She was running on a deadline.

Rinoa Heartily was one of the literary world's top writers who are famous for their instant #1 Bestsellers that seem to happen over night. Her editor loved her yet hated her for the stress she put him through. He would constantly yell at her to get her fingers moving to write her next big hit. He would tell her that he would have to present it within the next two weeks to his superiors and the lonely chapter from the middle of her story wouldn't fly well with the 'big men with briefcases'.

Squall Leonheart was not only her editor but also her husband and father of her son Alexander. His bosses would tease him that most of the male protagonists in Rinoa's stories were based on him, something that may not be flattering seeing as her last novel featured a somewhat sloppy man who saved her heroine.

Rinoa thought about the events of the past eight years that led her to where she was today: the death of her mother, the cold relationship she had with her father, the strange encounter she had that led to her marriage to her handsome editor, the problems they had that followed their marriage and the difficulties that arose with the arrival of her son. Her vision blurred as she continued to stare at the family photo on the coffee table in the living room.


THE NIGHT BEFORE Rinoa's sixteenth birthday was a night like no other. Her mother was out shopping for God only knew what and her father stayed at work late that night. Alone in the house with an English paper to write for the next day, Rinoa was stuck in front of the computer, trying to make stuff up about a book she hadn't cared for.

Her sole companion was her dog Angelo who lay in his bed in the corner of her room. Her lavish room contained a four-poster bed covered in cushions, an ornately carved dresser and matching desk, at which she currently sat.

Her attention shifted from the monitor to her dog. He was a beautiful creature that she wished she could be so that she wouldn't have to exert the effort required to write her literary essay about the odd values instilled in Harper Lee's To Kill A Mocking Bird. She didn't care much for "classic literature" as it was classified as.

The clock on her bed stand read eight-thirty. She had been going at the essay for four hours and only managed to write an introductory paragraph. The major work was still to come and the idea of locking herself up in her room tomorrow, feigning bad cramps was appealing… the fact that she just had her monthlies last week set aside.

Her sixteenth birthday was three and a half hours away and she was cooped up in her room trying to figure out her thesis statement. Her stomach growled a thunderous rumble, pulling her out of her reverie. She hadn't eaten supper yet because the work was overwhelming.

She walked down the spiral stairs and padded into the kitchen. A nauseous feeling swept over her as she pulled out the Kraft Dinner. Her body was right: she had grown tired of KD these past few years. A thought at the back of the mind told her that it wasn't just the KD in her hand that gave such a sickening sensation but she chose to ignore it.

She reached further back into the pantry and found the peanut butter and jelly jars. The comfort of childhood food eased her worries about the essay but a part of her felt empty. A part of her was missing; a part that would never be filled, not even by PB and J.

She placed her food on a small plate and went back to her room. All was normal in the teenager's room. Angelo was still in the corner, her unsaved paragraph was still on the screen and lights were still dimmed. Her chair was unmoved and her scattered clothes still in place.

She sat down in front of her computer and placed her small dinner before. She bit into the sandwich and chewed. She tried to swallow it but it was a dry and sticky lump stuck in her throat, clogging the feelings of ease.

She waited while the peristaltic movements of her throat pushed the lump down her esophagus, leaving the feeling of being stabbed in the back behind it.

Sprawled all over the steering wheel, a woman lay there, conscious as a metal rod- a recent purchase- is speared through her body. The back of the car is bent in the middle to show the point of collision in the back of the car.

In the car behind the woman's car is another driver sprawled across his steering wheel, blood dripping from his forehead. A white, circular spot in his windshield displays the point of collision between his head and the glass. A concussion leads him into unconsciousness and near death as he suffers a mild heart attack.

A bystander who had seen the gruesome crash runs to a payphone and dials 911, hoping for the ambulances to arrive as soon as possible.

Rinoa ran down the stairs in rush, fumbling all over the kitchen for a glass. Her throat was clogged, with what, she did not know. She pulled out a glass from a cabinet, sending two others crashing to the floor beside her. She yanked the tap on and didn't bother to fill the glass, drinking only what was in it, hoping that the feeling would go away.

She choked on the water, entering a fit of coughs. She coughed the former contents of her throat into the sink, bringing up blood as well.

Lifted into the ambulance a few moments later, the woman lies on a stretcher with a paramedic holding her hand, reassuring her that all would be well. A second medic states all that he has performed on the woman in an attempt to ease her pain and save her life. A tape recorder in the front seat captures the medical jargon as the medic injects 50ccs of adrenaline into the woman's veins.

Blood seeps into the woman's lungs, slowly drowning her. The medics are unaware of this and try to sustain her life until they reach the hospital where further and adequate treatment could be administered.

Frightened by the blood in the sink, Rinoa begins to shed tears of fear as she continues to cough up more and more blood. She doesn't know where it's coming from or why it was happening. She continues to cough, less blood coming up each time until it has completely stopped. Confused, Rinoa rinses the sink and drinks some more water, this time managing to keep it in her.

Just outside the hospital, the woman is being rolled out of the ambulance. Her breathing has stopped entirely and her heart is dying out. The carbon dioxide level in her body is reaching toxic levels as the hospital doctors are briefed on the woman's situation.

The stretcher is wheeled down the hall as doctors shout things back and forth to one another. Just before the woman enters the operating room, the carbon dioxide level has reached the limit, her heart failing and all attempt for life is concluded as futile. She has passed from the realm of the living and has transcended to the plane of the dead.

Rinoa felt a change in the air of her house. The windows were closed and the central heating system wasn't on. Even more confused, Rinoa took a step, only to cut the sole of her foot on the broken glass from the shattered cups.

"Fuck!" She yelled as she hopped to the bathroom so that she wouldn't leave blood on the tiles for her mother to yell at her for.

She pulled out a Band-Aid and bandaged her foot. The shift in the atmosphere occurred once more. Dazed, she walked back to the kitchen to clean up the mess but stopped when she traced a message in the glass: I love you

She stared at the message, not comprehending the meaning of the prophetic message. After a moment of contemplation, Rinoa reached for the broom and swept the glass into the garbage, the message gone and the feeling of remorse sweeping through her with each sweep.

At the hospital, the woman is identified and her family is called, to notify them of her death.

The stove clock read nine-thirty in glowing red dashes. The lights flickered and the phone rang, disturbing the silence. A keen observer, Rinoa hesitated before she answered the telephone.

"Hello, may I speak to a member of the Caraway family?" a foreign voice asked through the receiver.

"This is Rinoa speaking." Rinoa managed to say.

"I'm sorry to inform you that your mother has died just recently in our facility." The woman said remorsefully. Rinoa's focus shifted upon the word 'died'. Her mother couldn't be dead. It was impossible.

The woman continued to speak, "Her car was stuck from behind and a long metal pole was stabbed through her body. The driver of the other car did not survive either and they both died simultaneously. I'm sorry to tell you this. You can come see your mother's body tomorrow."

Tears rolled down Rinoa's cheeks tumultuously as the words 'mother' and 'died' echoed throughout her mind. It was impossible. They must have mixed her mother up with someone else. There was no way that her mother would die in her prime.

The receiver plummeted to the floor as Rinoa's legs gave way and she fell to the floor, sobbing, denying that her mother had died. She yelled and screamed, crying for her mother. The message in the glass flashed though her mind, further upsetting her.

The woman's voice was drowned by the screams and sobs. After a few more moments, the woman hung up leaving the monotonous drone of the phone in the background.

The garage door was opened and a car drove in. The door was shut and the scuffling sound of boots resounded in the garage but never made it to Rinoa's attention.

James Caraway opened the door to the main house, only to be greeted by his hysteric daughter's cries and sobs. He walked so her figure on the floor, and tried to calm her, expecting the act to die as soon as he were to raise his voice.

"MOOOOOOOM!" Rinoa continued to cry, ignoring the feeling of her father's hand on her back.

James pulled Rinoa up to face him, acknowledging that her tear-streaked face was not a ploy, but in fact, due to something that must have devastated his daughter. The sobs and wails didn't cease for a single second since the news was brought to her attention.

James ordered her silence herself. Rinoa attempted to obey, slowly lower her volume level to a muffled cry every now and then with the occasional sniff. A rational voice was adopted as he bade her to explain her troubles.

A chocked, "Mom died" came from Rinoa's throat as she broke into tears once more, running from her father's grasp to run to her room.

A stupefied James sat where he was. Still as a statue, he didn't fall asleep at all that night. The only indication of life in the great man was the rhythmic motion of his chest rising and falling.

That night, neither daughter nor father fell asleep.

THE PHONE RANG in the Leonheart household, snapping Rinoa out of her reverie of that tragic night. Her eyes had become moist as she took a frightening trip down memory lane. She recollected herself, breathing deeply a few times before she picked up the phone before the answering machine kicked in.

"Hello?" She answered.

"Hey babe." It was Squall… (Who else called her 'babe'?), "I'm running late today. I'll be home a couple hours later than usual."

Rinoa could hear a strange noise on Squall's end and a female giggle. Unsure of what to make of it, Rinoa calmed the green-eyed monster within her.

"What's the reason for you tardiness today, Mr. Leonheart?"

"Board meeting with the Briefcases. I hope you appreciate what I go through for you." Once more, a giggle could be heard in the background.

"I do, Mr. Editor. Is there anything you wish in the meantime?"

"Just the finished draft of your next novel."

A click ended the conversation and Rinoa sat there in the apartment, thinking once more about her life. The clock before her caught her eye: 15:30. Time to go pick up Alexander from daycare.

Her worries would have to wait for now.


A/N: So, what'd'ya think? Is it good enough? Does it show that I am trying to raise my writing quality? It'd be stellar if it actually did improve. But yeah. Happy hour's over, I guess. Exams are next week. Wish me luck.

Please review.