Helga Pataki had had just about enough. As she watched the ring shatter into a thousand tiny shards, her resolve finally gave way, and she cried. She cried until her sobs where horse. And she cried until finally she was in the floor, holding her knees, and banging her head against the oak cabinets of her small trailer's narrow kitchen. The hammer in her hands felt suddenly too heavy, and she threw it to the side, then banging her fists behind her, against the abused wood.
'That's a nice crystal,' the lieutenant had said all too polite and held her hand up to his face.
'It's a diamond,' she had defended, jerking her hand to her lap.
And he had laughed.
'No, sweetie, that's crystal. Smash that thing with a hammer, and watch it shatter.'
He had laughed all the way out her front door. Even as he got into his squad car.
As she sat there, trying to contain herself, she could feel the small bits biting into her calves and getting embedded into her jean capris. She could smell the blood coming from the small cuts now on her palms. Sniffing hard, Helga brought her hands up to wipe at her face. She could see herself in the reflection of the stainless dishwasher. Her blonde hair, curly with age, like her grandmother's, was disheveled. Her blue eyes were swollen and red, almost unrecognizable. And her face was now streaked pink and red from the blood on her palms. Blankly, she examined herself. When she sensed the ball coming back to her throat, she pulled away from the cabinets and stood quickly. Or as quickly as she could. Her head swam as she stood there, balanced against the counter top.
Breathing slow and deep, Helga eased away and went into the tiny living quarters. Her television was still on, the Lifetime Movie Network playing but on mute. She made her way over to the coffee table and picked up the taped up remote. Now in the evening darkness, she stared off into space. Finally, the photograph in her windowsill came into focus. She felt a fire grow within her. A tear creeped down her cheek, washed over her parted lips, and fell to the carpet.
Helga held onto the coffee table with one hand and removed her shoe with the other. Swiftly she threw her black flat against the photograph, knocking it through the opened window. A wet plop was all to be heard, and she knew the picture of she and Raye had fallen into a mud puddle. She hoped that it would keep sinking and sinking, deeper still, until the image of Raye Pye was ground so far into the earth that. . .that. . .
And she was crying again, this time on the ripped green sofa. This round of crying was brief. When Helga stopped, she wiped her face once more, stood with a stomp, and rushed to the front door, a frown drawn harshly on her streaked face. She looked a mess. She didn't care, and she grabbed the keys, stalking out to her blue car. But she turned on her heel just long enough to run back into her kitchen and grab what was left of the mangled ring, now without its crystal.
