Page 13 of Downfall

And when I walk back in he’s lying there with his arms behind his head, eyes closed, and a satisfied grin on his face. I don’t comment. I don’t say anything. I just walk past into the dressing room. He’s gotten what he wanted now so I can go back to being invisible again.

* * *

Paris stays in bed,nursing his hangover. I don’t complain. It’s the best outcome considering.

I ensure the maids know to pamper him just like he expects, and then I escape, seeking sanctuary at the clubhouse and hoping that a few hours of a punishing workout might give me some sort of reprieve from the dark oppression of my headspace.

Only it doesn’t. It’s like my head is stuck in some death spin. The same images keep flashing in my mind. The same trauma repeating over and over. I hunch up over the treadmill, sweat pouring from my skin. I could spend an eternity here, working each muscle group, and more often than not this is what occupies my time.

My body isn’t exhausted. It’s my mind that’s broken.

My mind that’s so far down into a blackhole of despair that I don’t think anything will ever bring me back out.

But it’s no less than what I deserve.

I gulp as those words echo in my head because deep down I know that’s true too. I deserve this. I deserve every moment of pain, of torment. My life is what it is because of my actions. My stupidity. I fell for the oldest trick in the book. I allowed some infantile need to be actually loved, a desperate want to be seen, to overrule every ounce of common sense.

I deserve this life. I deserve every horrific moment.

I spend another hour beating the hell out of my body, willing my mind to just shut up. And then I grab a shower. Freezing cold. It’s meant to be good for your hair, smooths the follicles or some such thing, but that’s not why I do it.

If you stand under the water long enough your whole body goes numb. Even your head. And sometimes, if you’re really lucky, your thoughts just stop.

For a second.

For a brief moment in time.

Everything turns to silence. Everything becomes silent.

Only it always comes crashing back after.

When I’m dressed and back to the perfect socialite, I sit for a while and drink coffee with the other ladies ignoring the loneliness that wants to set into my bones. I don’t have any friends. No one close. No one I would trust. But everyone here would gladly give up their seat for me. I make polite talk, add a comment here and there, just like always I act exactly the way I’m expected and no one realises the sunshine princess of Verona is dead on the inside and has been for a very long time.

I say goodbye, exchange hugs and kisses as if we’re all bosom buddies and again, I feel a streak of loneliness. What I wouldn’t give to have just one friend. Just one person I could truly talk to.

I let out a low sigh as I walk to my car because that will never happen. Not in this life. Not for me.

The valet was more than happy to call my driver and have it brought round but right now I want some fresh air.

Only when I get there there’s clearly an issue. My driver looks up at me from where he’s squatted with a face of horror.

“Ms. Capulet…” He begins, getting to his feet, wringing his hands like he’s guilty of something.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He winces. “I took a break. It was only for a moment. I didn’t mean…”

I give him a reassuring smile. One that I hope conveys that I’m not like my husband and no matter what is going on, I’m not going to react the way Paris would with anger and violence.

“The car…” He begins and then steps aside so that I can see.

The tyres are slashed. Every single one. I blink in shock as I walk around. And then I see the words scratched into the paintwork above the trunk.

Big angry slashes. Big angry letters that seem to shine more in the daylight as I stare at them.

‘Whore’

I gulp. My hands wrapping around my body more in reflex at the fact that thisisan attack. Maybe not on my body but on me.

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