Shattered Glass
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crushing the glass beneath his heavy leather boots, he eyes the car -- a mess of holes and glass and blood. Silence fills the air as he regards the mess, propping up his sunglasses to rest on his forehead. He takes a step forward, and stops.
The body isn't there. He stares at the empty seat, eyes blank and expressionless. Moments later, he is sitting down on the benumbed and torn fabric, touching the steering wheel with gloved fingers. He sits there for a long time, as if waiting for the sun to fall from the heavens. Waiting for something that will never come.
Something catches his eyes -- something sharp and polished. He picks it up, studying the large shard of glass as he holds it at various angles. Glancing back down to the car floor, where lie thousands -- perhaps even millions -- of tiny, miniscule pieces, all from same substance.
He contemplates the shattered glass in devout silence, frigid air biting his scarred skin.