A/N: QLFC Round 9 | Beater 2 for Wimbourne Wasps | Main Prompt: breaking a mirror | Optional Prompt: 14 - Thunderstorm

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."

- Seneca

August 2, 1998

It was just nearing 11pm, and the small pub was steadily clearing out, the crowds evaporating and leaving behind just a few lone souls tending to their drinks in silence, alcohol alone taking the place of chatter. Rain pounded on the wooden roof of the old building with percussive plunks, the occasional clap of thunder echoing through the dimly lit space.

A redheaded man sat perched on a stool at the end of the bar counter. He held up his glass, and the bartender was in front of him a few moments later. The bartender's image presented a stark contrast to the redhead, who's scruffy stubble stood out on his pale face. He had buzzed hair accompanied by a neatly trimmed beard, and his t-shirt hugged his biceps, a clear choice meant to emphasize his musculature. "It's almost closing time, mate. I think it's time to go," he said, making no move to fill the glass presented to him.

There was no sign that the man heard him — his eyes were downcast, his glass still held aloft by a slightly shaky hand.

With a sigh, he raised his voice a bit. "Come on, now — I've no wish to carry you out of here." He had no doubt that he could if it came down to it, though. The man was thin, bony, his cheeks hollow and sunken, his Adam's apple pronounced on his neck — he had clearly lost weight recently, and it didn't suit him. When he looked up, the bartender noticed the haunted look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath them — the shadows of memories leaving their physical mark through sleepless nights. He felt for the man, as he did for all his patrons in one way or another.

"Just fill it, will you?" he muttered.

The bartender glanced at the clock hanging above bottle upon bottle of distilled spirits. "No can do, I'm afraid. We're officially," — he raised his voice so that he was speaking to the other two remaining stragglers as well — "closed for business!" Chairs creaked as their occupants, an older couple, slowly stood, joints popping into place, and headed for the door.

The glass slipped from the man's fingers, the clunk of it's heavy bottom hitting the counter joining the continuous pitter patter CRASH pitter patter of the weather outdoors. He pushed himself out of the stool, then stood on shaky legs, using the counter for support. The bartender came over to steady him, the concern on his face illuminated as a bolt of lightning shot through the sky. "You got a ride, mate? Know where you're off to?" It was a long shot; he would bet a hefty sum that the man didn't even know the name of the pub he was currently in.

The man shook his head, then opened his mouth as if to speak — before he could do so, however, he was interrupted by a bout of vomiting. It hit the floor and streaked down his shirt, but luckily missed the bartender, who sighed. It was going to be a long night. He put a hand on the man's shoulder and steered him to his personal lavatory behind the counter — the plumbing had seen better days, but water was water, even if tinged with gray. "Here you are — get yourself cleaned up, then, and we can both be on our ways." He grabbed a wet rag and headed off to sort out the floor, closing the door behind him.

The man was alone, with only a mirror for company. He saw his own face in front of him for the first time in three months and then —

It shattered.

Shards of glistening silver scattered across the floor, giving the mirror a new purpose, one it served rather well: it reflected his heart in exquisite detail.

He shattered.

Beads of blood dripped from his hand where bits of glass were now embedded in his flesh; drops of glistening saltwater streamed down his face as he crumpled in on himself.

Outside the door, the bartender dropped his rag and pushed open the door, taking in the sight before him. "Oi! That was a right good piece of work! Antique and all, must have been worth…" he trailed off, shaking his head. What was done was done. His own fault for keeping it in the bathroom of his pub anyway, he reckoned. "You alright there?"

The man looked down at his bleeding hand, then around at the fragments surrounding him. "Oh Merlin, did I… I saw him…but it wasn't…I— I had to...had to stop it..."

"It's okay, I get the picture." He did not, in fact, understand a word the man was saying, but he had enough experience by now to go along with it. "Look, I'll let you stay and collect yourself for a bit — no one's leaving my pub like this — but then you're outta here, understand?" The man nodded, and the bartender left once more, humming softly to himself.

"... Closing time, time for you to go out

To the places you will be from

Closing time, this room won't be open

Till your brothers or your sisters come…

… Closing time, every new beginning

Comes from some other beginning's end"

At half past midnight, the man stepped out onto the pavement where raindrops mingled with teardrops until they were indistinguishable, the pain of memory and the weeping of the sky combining until he was sure the sky must be crying for him. With him. At least he wasn't alone.

"George?"

The man turned his head, and then just about fell over from surprise. Or drunkenness. Maybe both. "Angelina? What're you…" his words were stumbling into each other, slurring together.

The dark-skinned woman who had called out to him walked over. "Andy from the pub called — great man, he is — said he had to go but there was someone who might need a hand…I live just over there… Look, why don't you stay with me tonight? It's no bother, and I'm sure your family will be happy to know you're alright — they've been worried, and I… George, I heard about what happened to Charlie, and so soon after Fred...I'm so sorry…"

George Weasey just nodded and followed her down to a flat at the end of the street. He felt as if something had broken inside him when he broke that mirror, but maybe it was for the better. Only time would tell, but perhaps a broken heart was something like a fractured bone — sometimes it had to be broken once more in order to heal properly.