Nothing was left but an empty glass.
An empty glass signifying the extent and the immensity of the void of any sort of feeling, any sort of meaning left in her life.
She had broken all of their hearts and all of the plates already.
She had taken the remnants to her arms and legs in hope of some sort of feeling, some sort of reaction.
It was like every nerve cell in her body had suddenly malfunctioned.
She was numb, and nothing could awaken her.
Not the screaming, not the cutting, not the blood staining her kitchen floors.
She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t feel. And that was the worst feeling of all.
And as she bent down to pick up the broken pieces and wipe up the blood, she saw it.
The empty glass sitting on the kitchen counter, intact.
The last shred of her contentment.
And she smashed it to the ground.