Page 1 of Tear Me to Pieces
1
MYRA
I GLAREAT the ceiling above my bed—like it’s the problem and not me—trying to concentrate on the task at hand. Narrowing my eyes, I blow out a breath, determined to make myself focus. I’ve got to get this done so I can get on with the rest of my day. Unfulfilling as it will be.
Unfortunately, everything seems determined to be unfulfilling today.
I’ve been laying here for twenty minutes now, vibrator buzzing away against my clit, and I’m not any closer to getting off than I was when I started. It’s the third day in a row I’ve had… problems. And I’m starting to get pissed. Annoyed by my body’s unwillingness to get with the program.
It’s the latest in a streak of failures I’ve had to face lately. Nothing’s going the way I expected, but at least I still had this. Still maintained the grip I had on the pleasure I was never supposed to want and sure as heck was never supposed to chase.
Hoping it will help if I eliminate as many distractions as possible, I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out the half-finishedroom around me and the early morning light streaming through the cheap blinds covering the windows. I need to get my mind in the game.
After all, that’s all my life really is. A game. One where the goal is to do the exact opposite of what I was raised to do. To go against the bullshit rules put on me by small-minded men suffering from the illness of arrogance and the epidemic of control.
Self-pleasure was at the top of the list of no-nos enforced on me. It wasn’t just frowned-upon, touching yourself was entirely off-limits. Now I know why.
If the women these men kept under their thumbs understood what sex was supposed to feel like, it would have been anarchy. Expectations would have been established. Demands would have been made.
The men I used to know weren’t big on having expectations put on them by their wives, and they sure as hell wouldn’t have tolerated demands.
Sadly, now that I’m a year into a monogamous relationship with my vibrator, it seems the excitement has worn off. I’ve reached the point where my morning masturbation sessions feel more like a chore, and that’s really freaking aggravating.
Blowing out a sigh, I give up, switching off my toy and dropping it to the mattress beside me. I love starting my day off with a big fuck you to my past, but I guess that’s not in the cards for me today. Again.
Flipping back the covers, I sit up and swing my legs off the bed, standing on the clean but unfinished floor of my bedroom. One more thing that fizzled under the weight of my own expectations.
The minute I moved to Memphis, I took off running, righting all the wrongs that had been forced upon me. I cut my hair. Pierced my nose. Got a few tattoos and filled my closet with clothing that would have horrified my piece of shit father and my piece of shit husband.
Ex-husband.
Since Matthias was in prison when I divorced him, I was able to get a pretty good deal. All the money in our checking account became mine, along with over half of what we had in savings and investments. Once I got the money, I decided to purchase one of the buildings in the neighborhood where my sister Lydia and her husband Christian live. I wasn’t really thinking through all the shit that came with the purchase, I just liked the idea of owning property.
Another thing that was off-limits to me before.
Unfortunately, while the place wasn’t in awful shape, ‘former office building’ wasn’t an aesthetic I wanted to live with. Initially, the idea of bringing the vision I had for the building to life was exciting. But once I started actually digging into it, the task of making it a home felt overwhelming.
Honestly, everything has begun to feel overwhelming. All the steam I had for overhauling my life has started to sputter out, leaving me stalled and stagnant. All I do is go to work at the day spa I manage, then come home to my bare-bones house where I eat takeout in bed before I crash.
It’s not the exciting, empowered life I imagined, but it’s still a million times better than what I came from. And I wake up with a smile on my face every morning.
Except this one.
This morning I’m pissed off. At my vibrator. At my body. At myself. I’ve been stuck too long, and now it seems another part of me has decided to stall out.
And I’m tired of just letting it happen. Sick of my own excuses. Over the myriad reasons I can come up with to justify my lack of progress.
It’s beyond time to get my shit together, and I might as well kick it off with a bang. Take back something I’ve been missing so much it hurts. Something that was once a huge part of my identity. It was the only bit of me I was proud of. The only aspect of my life that didn’t only bring misery.
I’m ashamed I let it go. Or let them take it from me. I’m not really interested in figuring out which right now, and I’m not sure it matters anyway.
After taking a quick shower and pulling on a pair of low-slung jeans and a cropped vest I’m going to call a shirt, I make my way downstairs. Whipping up a quick cup of coffee in the only finished room of my house, I pour the steaming goodness into a travel mug before heading out the door. Not giving myself time to second-guess—or linger too long in the chilly fall air—I march straight to my sister’s house, taking the back steps two at a time before knocking and letting myself in.
“Lyd?” I loudly call her name. I learned the hard way to alert her to my presence in her home as quickly as possible. And to not look around when she’s not easy to find. All it took was one earful of the sort of sexual interaction I’ve obviously never experienced, and I decided to stick to the kitchen and wait for her to come to me. Always.
Because I donotwant to hear Christian demanding she come for him again. Especially since she’s nearly ready to deliver their first baby, and that’s a visual I don’t have any interest in wrapping my head around.
Thankfully, they don’t seem to be going at it this morning, because it’s only a handful of seconds before Lydia’s voice filters down from the second floor. “Be right there.”
