“Shit,” I mutter as I rush over to turn off the spout. I scramble for the dish towel to mop up the water on the floor, nearly crying aloud when my ribs protest. My heart is racing, and I’m not even sure why at this point.
“River?”
“Just…just hold on, okay?” I snap. I finish soaking up the water. Thankfully, I caught it before it made it huge mess. I trap the phone between my ear and shoulder and wring out the dish towel in the sink.
I stick my hand into the sink so I can drain it and right as I grab onto the stopper, I feel a sharp sting on my finger. Flinching in pain, bite my lip and rip the plug out of the sink. I cut my self on the broken glass.
“River?” Mako says again, sounding impatient.
“What? What do you want, Mako?” I return his impatience tenfold.
My finger is bleeding, my hands are still shaking, and I’m on the verge of tears.
“You left without a word and haven’t answered my calls for the past two days. Did you think I wouldn’t be worried?”
“Yes, actually. I did. Rest assured, I’m fine.”
He sighs. I ignore it as I rush to the bathroom to find the peroxide and a band-aid. I pour peroxide on it and inspect the wound. It’s pretty superficial, but deep enough to cause a scar. Now I definitely won’t be able to hide my mistake from Ryan.
I rinse off the blood and wrap a band-aid around it tightly.
“You don’t sound fine.” I pause, watching the last of my blood circle down the drain.
“I was fine until you called.” Truth.
Ryan has reverted back to his old self. Loving. Sweet. Thoughtful. And my fear of him is tentatively retreating. He hasn’t shown his dark side to me since the day I came home, and it’s to the point where I’m questioning myself—thinking maybe I just overreacted. It’s hard to picture in my head when he’s being so loving now.
He bought me yet another new phone, fired the secretary he cheated on me with and brought home champagne to celebrate. I nearly drank the whole bottle and let him fuck me in the ass that night, despite my bruised and broken body. I covered my ashamed tears with the symphony of his snoring.
Regardless, we're on our way back to being happy again. Or something like that. I’m still healing, and he’s taken good care of me so far. He’s made it clear as long as I’m a good girl and don’t fuck up, he’ll continue to take good care of me. He promised.
“I’m just worried about you, River,” he says lowly. His deep voice resonates through me.
“Well do us both a favor and stop.” I hang up and immediately delete the call from my log.
Then, I go and grab some super glue. Maybe he’ll appreciate the effort to fix my mistake.
THE MUG RESEMBLES JAGGED rocks smashed together like crooked teeth; the ragged edges held together with shitty glue that will melt in the dishwasher within seconds. It resembles me. Just a bunch of mismatched pieces barely holding it together.
This mug can never go in the dishwasher again. I should’ve put it in there in the first place, but cleaning helps me calm my mind. Dusting the ceiling fan blades would’ve been less risky, but the dust makes me sneeze, and fuck it, who cares if I sneeze because pretty soon I’ll be trying to keep the blood from coming out of my nose instead.
And worst of all, now I'm doomed to a lifetime of hand washing it. It's a guarantee that I'll break it again. The broken pieces will break into tinier pieces over and over until eventually, it'll be too far gone to piece back together again.
I might as well be staring into a crystal fucking ball.
I sigh and carefully set the mug on the dinner table. My hand shakes from the anxiety blooming inside me. Ryan’s going to kill me. If he tries, I’ll flick the cup and it’ll fall back apart, then stab him in the jugular with his favorite mug. Poetic.
Maybe I should just let him kill me. Though the bastard will surely make me suffer first. Can’t be much worse than what Billy has already done to me. And those will be my last words too. He wasn't the one to truly break me.
The door opens and I hear Ryan's feet shuffling across the gray hardwood floors.
“Babe?” he calls from the living room.
He sounds like he's in a good mood. Maybe he won't be mad.
My body knows I’m telling myself lies and the anxiety worsens.
“In here,” I answer, the tremble in my voice prominent. Damn it.