Page 120 of Like A Moth To A Flame

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I can wait for you at the bottom. I can stay away if you want me to

Moth

Amelia went home the night after I confronted Tommy. For the next three days, I didn’t give myself time to think. I cleaned my dad’s entire bedroom by myself, breaking his old, rickety bed frame into pieces with a sledgehammer I found in the barn. With every slam of the hammer, I felt the anger drain out of me, and by the time it was in easily moved pieces, I was out of breath and empty. I carried the pieces to the trash by myself, focusing on my scraped knuckles and the ache in my lower back. It was a nice outlet, but sadly it only stayed gone for a couple of hours. Then it returned, and I dissolved into a fit of tears on my dad’s bedroom floor.

I couldn’t give my mind any downtime, in fear that it would take me back to the jail and every little thing he’d said to me. I didn’t want to think about it, because I was afraid of what I would feel if I did. I had a swirling, painful conflict in the pit of my stomach, and I was afraid it would swallow me whole if I let it.

I did the right thing. Didn’t I?

I protected myself by keeping him away from me.

I did the right thing.

When I woke up the morning of the fourth day, I bought paint and painted the entire living room a bright eggshell white. Twice, I spilled paint all over the hardwood floor, but I ignored it, stepping over it as I continued my work.

I couldn’t look at my mistakes, because they would remind me of the others. I couldn’t think about Tommy. It made my stomach hurt.

It was my stomach, right?

Except my pain was a little higher up and nestled behind my sternum.

No. Nope. Don’t think of that.

I cleaned off the coffee table, tossing Dad’s old medication, the bottle caps, the empty beer bottles, and anything else I could get my hands on. I found a screwdriver in the kitchen drawer and tightened all the legs before stepping back and surveying the work I’d done.

I could sand it down and stain it the same color I planned for the floor, and they would look good together. Maybe I could get a nice rug, deep red with gold trim, and change the curtains to the same red. I could buy a couch, and—

I shook my head, hard, and tossed the screwdriver onto the couch, trying to force my mind to think of something else.

Nope. I wasn’t staying here. I couldn’t stay here.

I moved out of the room, throwing myself into painting the hallway instead.

If I painted and cleaned and broke enough furniture, maybe I could forget. Maybe I wouldn’t be angry anymore.

Maybe I wouldn’t be sad.

Sad? Why was I sad?

I shouldn’t be sad.

I had stuck up for myself.

I did the right thing, didn’t I?

Then why did it fuckinghurt?

Too caught up in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice when paint dropped from the brush in my fingers and splattered across the hardwood floor.

“Damn it,” I grumbled, dropping the paintbrush into the bucket and grabbing the rag I used to clean up spills—except it didn’t come off. I scrubbed and wiped, but it left a long white smear.

I’d have to sand and stain in here now, too.

“Goddamnit,” I grunted, tossing the rag onto the stairs with an annoyed grunt.

I couldn’t do anything right. All I did was fuck up.

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