Threnody
You can't blame Zeus for everything.
Garland grimaced the thought, when he ran across a favorite family picture cracked upon the floor, picked it up, like he had the day before, looking closely into the tiny faces of his brothers and sisters now fractured by spider-lines of broken glass. Picked it up and gazed fondly, like he had yesterday, when evidently Brooklyn had seen him do it.
This had happened before, and you couldn't blame Zeus for everything. Zeus was really just an enabler, Garland dully reasoned, on his knees picking bits of glass off the linoleum. Startling as another crash resonated from the floor above. That one had sounded like a chandelier. Hn. Garland looked at his bleeding finger, and sat back on his heels, extracting a stray sliver of glass. Really, there was no point in startling anymore.
It wouldn't hurt so much if it wasn't so unexpected.
But for a few minutes he couldn't bring himself to investigate the noise, and sat there on his heels looking down at the broken family picture—startling when droplets of blood further marred the cheerful faces.
Garland looked at his finger, supposing these were deeper wounds than he'd first thought.
a/n: If you're not feather-duster, go now and read and love her stuff. If you are feather-duster, happy birthday. I love your stuff.