Page 104 of Broken by my Bully
My toes curl against the soles of my flip-flops. The wind toys with my hair and gives me gentle little shoves, like it’s encouraging me closer to the edge.
There’s a sickening buzz in my ears. A painful thump in my chest as if my heart is trying to push me back to safety.
But I’ve been here before. This isn’t new territory for me.
I shuffle a little closer.
Just a little closer.
And then I’m right on the edge, and every excuse not to jump becomes as flimsy as the loose ground beneath my feet.
Bastian
The Uber driver gives me a grudging nod of admiration before he reverses his car out of my driveway and heads back to civilization. I suppose I should be glad my house is appealing. It took fucking long enough to build. And cost me twice what I’d been quoted.
I lean back, staring up at the monstrosity. Strategically placed spotlights pick out details in the architecture that make the structure all the more imposing.
A sharp angle here. Rough, textured concrete there.
I blink when water hits my face.
Christ, what am I doing standing here in the rain?
Oh, right. I was too fucking drunk to drive home, and now I’m pondering why the hell I built myself such a depressing house.
I’m chuckling to myself as I head for the front door. My security system registers the cellphone in my pocket and unlocks the front door with a faint click. I track a few steps of mud onto the carpet before I remember to take off my shoes.
It’s barely drizzling outside, but it’s been going at it for over two hours. The roads are slippery, and as much as I trust my Tesla to get me home safely despite that, I sure as fuck don’t trust myself.
I slip out of my jacket and toss it over the back of the sofa as I pass it on my way to the kitchen.
Now that I’m home, I can keep on drinking.
Better booze,muchbetter company.
My hands move automatically to my wrists, unbuttoning my cuffs. Then to my throat, unbuttoning my shirt.
I veer to the fireplace, turn it on, watch the flames spring up out of thin air to dance and flicker along the row of pebbles. They illuminate the furniture, ensuring I won’t walk into anything, so I don’t bother turning on the overhead lights.
Should have come straight home instead of stopping off at that bar. But The Eden House, Evelyn’s frail care home, is an hour’s drive past Ashwood Crossing, and as soon as I hit the border of this pathetic little town, I couldn’t wait anymore.
It’s her fucking gift. The one in my bag I so desperately want to throw in the trash. The one I so desperately want to open.
Why does it feel so fucking heavy?
I can’t get it out of my head.
Exactly why it’s still in my satchel, unopened.
Might never tear open that pretty gift wrapping.
Silent rebellion.
I laugh, shaking my head as I step into the kitchen. There’s a stab of pain in my hand, and I stare at the dent in the refrigerator door. Then I laugh again because, Jesus Christ, just when I think I have my shit under control, I assault my household appliances.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
I’ve never had control.
