Coming Apart - Jeff Thomas

Sandra sat inert on the bus seat, crowded by strangers on either side. She’d felt the seam in her skirt give as she squatted to take the seat. Had she heard it? As her weight had heaved into place, the cold fiberglass met bare skin and sent a shock through her body. Men and women around her had lifted their heads, as if trying to identify an odd sound in the distance. And yes, she had seen a smirk. Now, her chest constricted, she inaudibly gasped for breath and willed the tears back. Her shame left her shivering and helpless, like a small child at the bottom of a well. The emotion stood out particularly strong and pathetic because, god, this wasn’t like her at all. Friends would have expected her to laugh this off. Come on, Sandy dear, pull yourself together, she hissed. But she knew that something had cracked, broken, like a switch thrown so many times it was stripped to ineffectiveness. The laughter wouldn’t come. And as for the child at the bottom of the well, the cold from the icey water clawed into her bones and took hold. All these people around, and she just knew no one would find her.