Page 152 of Fragments
I follow her as she goes around back, through the doors and into an actual kitchen I never knew was here.
“This place has a kitchen?” I gasp, looking around in mild shock. “Why the fuck do we eat the nastiest shit ever??”
“Do Velle and I look like Martha Stewart and fuckin Emeril to you?” She huffs, and against all odds, I crack a smile. “This place is a dump, look around.”
I sniffle. “So why am I here?”
She stares at me for a moment before murmuring, “I thought you could use some rage-therapy.”
I have no earthly clue what she’s talking about, and she must see that, because she picks up a rusty old frying pan, turning the handle in her hand a few times before raising her arm and swinging it down on a pile of dishes.
Everything scatters to the floor with a loud crash, and I jump.
“Jesus…” I mutter.
Joy grins, handing the pan to me. “Your turn.”
I gape at it, stomach all twisted up, pain radiating throughout my extremities like I’ve suffered third-degree burns on the inside. I’m fuckingdestroyed…
The only thing worse than coming to prison is having your heartbroken in prison.
That dude fucked me up… My first relationship, my first almostboyfriend. My first… somanythings. And he just doused me in kerosene and lit a fucking match.
I don’t know if I’m angry enough to break shit right now…I’m justsodamnsad.
“Go for it, Luthor,” Joy says. “Bash your troubles away. It’ll feel better, I promise.”
I promise…
Those words. From his lips.
His sweet, soft, lying whore lips.
A guttural roar escapes me, and I swing the pan as hard as possible, slamming it into a bunch of trash. The stuff goes flying, empty glass bottles smashing all over the floor.
“Whoa…” I breathe a chuckle, peeking at Joy. “That felt good.”
“More!” she growls, grinning wider than I’ve ever seen her before.
So I swing it again, smashing more dishes, and pans, and boxes. I run all around the room, smashing and bashing everything I can find. And when the pan isn’t doing the trick anymore, I smash a bottle in half and use it to stab a big sack of flour.
“Fuck you,” I choke, stabbing over and over. “Fuck you with your blue eyes and your perfect smile… Your whole fuckinglying, betrayingwhoreface!Fuck you!!”
By the time I come up for air, I’m panting and covered in flour. I peek at Joy, and she bursts out laughing.
“I’m sorry, but you look so cute,” she sighs.
I grin, puffing flour off my lips. A chuckle slips out and I whip the bottle against the wall, where it crashes into shards.
Joy cheers out loud, and we both laugh.
But mine fades fast, the anger going with it. Giving way to the pain I was really hoping to avoid.
Slumping down onto the floor in a pile of flour and stale oats, my head falls into my hands.
And I fuckingcry.
Weeks later…
