Bad Glass

The first couple of seconds take place outdoors, at the edge of a field. The ground is covered in snow, and the trees—swinging into view as the camera sways back and forth—are wreathed in a thin layer of frost.

The camera steadies long enough to show a hunched figure disappearing through an opening in the side of a hill. The opening is a rough mouth dug into the dirt, and the figure has to bend down to make it through. The camera follows in pursuit, heading toward the hole.

The volume is cranked up loud, and the operator’s breath rasps like a steam engine. Footfalls crunch through the thin layer of snow.

The camera swings to the side, revealing a disheveled young man, also in pursuit. This man pulls to a stop at the dark opening, directly in front of the camera. He lights a flashlight, then darts inside.

THE MAN’S VOICE—A DEAFENING, FRANTIC HISS: Mac!

The video is swallowed in darkness. There is an occasional blinding burst of light as the flashlight beam swings into view, but it does little to illuminate the scene. The squelch of muddy footsteps and the loud rasp of breath drown out all other sound.

THE MAN’S VOICE AGAIN: Mac!

The video jolts suddenly, and the tape hitches, sending up a single line of static. There is an inaudible curse from behind the camera, and this is greeted with a loud shhhhh! For a brief handful of seconds, the camera is relatively still, showing the dark earthen walls as the flashlight pans back and forth.

There are three open tunnels here, leading into the darkness ahead.

THE CAMERA OPERATOR’S VOICE, DEAFENINGLY LOUD: What the fuck is this?… (Followed by an unintelligible, breathless rush of words.)

The man with the flashlight sprints into the middle tunnel, and the camera follows. Fifteen seconds pass, filled with panting breath, loud footsteps, and momentary bursts of light. Then the man with the flashlight slows to a stop. The camera pans around him, revealing another man kneeling at a dead-end wall. His ear is pressed into the dirt, and his hands are splayed at his side. Tears streak his muddy face. His mouth is moving even before he starts to speak.

THE KNEELING MAN, IN A DISTORTED WHISPER: (Unintelligible) … her singing?

All three people freeze like statues, holding their breath. The camera catches the kneeling man as he closes his eyes and pushes his face deeper into the mud.

After a couple of seconds, a bare hint of noise swells up above the background hiss of videotape and speaker distortion. It is a melodic, wordless whisper, muffled and muddy, without place or direction.

It is sweet and warbling. And it is a long, long way away.

“Dean.”

It was a breathy, feminine whisper, hanging in the darkness above me.

“Please, Dean. Please wake up.”

There was a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently, trying to pull me up from the depths of sleep. I resisted. I kept my eyes shut and rolled away from the voice, burying my face in the pillow. It was warm there, inside the pillow.

Inside the pillow, there was nothing but heat and sleep and dreams.

“Where is she, asshole? What have you done?”

Mac grabbed the back of my sweatshirt and pulled me off the bed. The sweatshirt ripped at the seams, and I fell to the carpeted floor. My right elbow hit the ground hard, numbing my entire arm.

“What the fuck?” I gasped, pushing the question out through gritted teeth.

He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me across the room, my feet scrambling beneath me as I tried to relieve the pressure on my scalp. He pushed me up against the wall and wrapped his fist around my neck. His thumb dug into my windpipe, making my eyes water; I saw his bearded, frenzied face through a blur of pain. There were tears in his eyes. The muscles in his jaw trembled with seething emotion.

We were alone in the room. Taylor was gone.

“Where is she?” Mac yelled, spraying saliva across my face. “Where the fuck did she go?”

“I … I don’t know,” I managed, my voice a thin croak, barely making it past his clenched fist. I thought he meant Taylor. Did she flee? I wondered. Why? Was it because of our night with Danny? The sex had been dizzying, overwhelming, and I didn’t know what to think of it myself. Or is it because I touched her?

“Mac! Mac! What the fuck are you doing?” It was Sabine’s voice, coming from the hallway.

Without taking his eyes off me, he raised his free hand, waving a crumpled piece of paper toward the door. “She’s gone,” he growled. “And this little piece of shit’s responsible.”

“Calm down,” Sabine said. “Let him go.” Her voice was placating but firm. She moved into my line of sight, pushing her hands up against Mac’s chest, trying to get him to relax his grip.

I was quickly losing my vision; the edges of the world contracted inward, like an aperture sliding shut over my eyes.

“I said let … him … go!” Sabine yelled. She threw her body forward, slamming hard into Mac’s chest and knocking him backward. My head snapped forward as he lost his grip on my throat.

As soon as he let go, I sucked in a great big gulp of air. The rush of oxygen set my sight spinning. My head felt like an over-inflated balloon, ready to float up toward the ceiling. Then my knees buckled, and I slid down to the floor. As I gasped for breath, Sabine stepped out in front of me, holding her hands out toward Mac.

He kept coming after me, but each time he took a step forward, Sabine pushed him back. His frenzied eyes darted back and forth between us, but he seemed reluctant to turn his anger against Sabine.

“Calm down,” she said. Mac took another step forward, and she once again pushed him back. “Calm the fuck down!”

“What’s going on?” Floyd asked. I turned and saw him standing in the doorway. He was rubbing his eyes and yawning. “What time is it?”

Sabine gave Mac one last push, and the strength left his legs. He collapsed to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. His shoulders slumped forward into a defeated slouch. “Look after him, Floyd,” Sabine said. “Keep him away from Dean. Sit on him if you have to.”

Sabine crouched down at my side. She stared into my eyes for a bit, a concerned look on her face. “You still there, Dean? Everything okay?”

I tried to speak, but my voice got caught in my throat. I swallowed, pushing saliva over my freshly damaged larynx, and tried again. “Yeah,” I croaked. “But I won’t be singing … in no choir … anytime soon.”

I glanced over her shoulder and noticed Charlie standing in the open doorway. His eyes were wide, and he