Excerpt from Phait: Act One: The Glass Grenade
What did it feel like when it went off? Inside his heart, the glass grenade exploded into a trillion pieces. It was his heart of hearts, and the shards cut and pierced this heart of flesh, cutting, and lodging in some cases. It made for immediate lacerations with heavy bleeding, only for other shards to come across and seal wounds and lace around like woven glass string sutures moving together in a reversed explosion that with its pulling back and in, scarred immediately. Another piece leaving feelings of large crystalline toothpicks that moved back and forth as natural woods sawing on the waves of a sea of pain -floating forever like cruel thorn-covered liferafts unable to save anyone. A trillion even smaller shards of glass broke into a trillion smaller and even more intimate places of heart memories, of kisses and lifting of babies. Finding out the next impossible layers of lies, the piercing series of nano-splinters bit through the softest and most pure parts of his heart, eventually each one taking hold as hard stitches that pinched every recess of every possible vessel of goodness and life that ultimately gave way to the breaking of an entire heart as if it were only made of bloody sawdust left to dry and whisper away.
A prayer roared out as a whimper -like the lashing of Christ with a broken breath. A thought of a moment of weakness and wanting to grab the whip and its bone-tipped weaponry, to turn to the Romans beating His back and then in total false righteousness flogging them to pieces so hard that even the bronzed soldier armor would melt away from hot impacts and that after, a naturally red Roman robe would be caked not with the royal dyes from flowers of the field, but with the blood of men that deserved to die. But instead, it was the real way of Christ. A roar for sure, but the roar was not vengeance -instead, it was a whimper. Still a roar, but a whimper roar, which is never to be fully understood as anything other than sacrifice. And then, another lash, please. And another. And another. Let the world not understand or judge it as cowardice. Let a fist not be raised and instead take the fist. Let the fist punch the rib cage again and again to stop the beating. And let the glass break farther and farther as a prayer for a heart of flesh to remain intact and to pick a path of pain instead. For his love for her was limitless. If God’s love for him was anything real and not unique but part of a community of all humanity capable of knowing redemption, then he as a man simply had to believe, no matter what anyone said or did, no matter what she said, did or saw, that his love had no limits because there was one man who had no limits of his love for his bride.
Phait, if he could, would have pulled the damned pin from his glass grenade just to get to take the pain away from her and take it on himself. No, Marcus was not rage. He was not vengeance. He knew she would end it all. He knew he would continue to wait. To love her. To never let go. That for the rest of the days if his wedding ring was on his hand and it felt like the ring-pin to the grenade, then that’s what it was. It would stay that way. And she would forever think it impossible that his love was that profound. She’d call him crazy. Obsessive. Kiss another man in false love and then eventually spite. But, for the first time perhaps, he was truly showing her his impossible and quite mad -love. She didn’t care. She sure didn’t deserve it. They call it, “too little too late” in some circles. But what it really was, was “too much…too true…and too good to be true”. Sally was pulling the thread to the sweater.