Page 12 of Venomous Kiss
Dear Diary,
I’m officially single.
My husband can go and get fucked.
xox
What do you do when you have nowhere to go? I don’t even know. Friends? Who has them? Not me, that’s for sure. Husbands, well, he is a lying, cheating asshole, and family, yeah, let’s not even get me started on the lack of.
And now I have no job.
I quit.
So here I am, sitting in my car, staring up at a hotel I have never been in because I need somewhere to sleep. Getting out, I reach for the bag I packed. It’s not much, but it’s mine. To be honest, right now, I’m not even worried about all the things in that house or the fact that I should have probably stayed and made him leave. But then I also like to be a vindictive bitch, so it was fun to give him payback. I never claimed to be a holy woman. No, I think I am the exact opposite of that.
A holy woman would not imagine all the ways to kill someone. Nor would she have done any of the things I did tonight.
No, I’m altered, a little fucked-up, and truth be told. I like it. Imagine being ordinary; no one wants that. We all want to be exquisite in some way. Not that I would call myself that, either.
Dragging my bag out of the car, I walk straight into the hotel, where the receptionist eyes me in a way that screams why did I pick here?
I don’t know. It wasn’t too far from home and affordable, from what Google told me.
“A room, please, for one,” I tell her, adding my credit card to the counter.
“How long are you after?”
“One night.” She asks for my details and then proceeds to put the card through, tells me my room number, hands me a key, and I thank her before I walk off. It isn’t long until I get to the room, and when I do, I drop the bag and immediately start stripping before my phone rings. And it’s his ringtone, my husband’s.
Glancing at it, I shake my head and pull off my shirt.
And then he calls again.
Huffing, I walk over and reject it. He calls right back.
“Stop calling. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Lil, come home. Let’s talk about this.”
“I watched you fuck her, you know,” I tell him as I kick off the remaining of my clothes and walk into the bathroom. Starting the shower, I continue, “You liked it. You liked fucking her.”
“I liked fucking you too,” he says back, not even denying it. “Come home.”
“No,” I say, and look at myself. My copper-colored hair is a mess. Clearly, it’s seen better days. My cheeks are still flushed from thinking about him and what else he could do to me. My pussy is sore in the best kind of way. My fingers glide along the redness on my throat, trailing down to the light bruising where his fingers squeezed my breast. It’s like I was a tapestry of Reon’s making, and I can’t fight the smirk on my lips.
“We can go to therapy,” he tries again.
I shouldn’t have answered the phone. I know better. We have been disconnected as a couple for so long that when he tries now, I feel nothing.
When did I actually stop loving him? Or better yet, did I ever?
“You think I want to do therapy with you?” I scoff and reach for the shower gel, placing it in the shower as it steams the room. I can still smell Reon on me.
And fuck, he smells good. I even second-guess my shower because it would wash the smell of him from my body.
“I want this marriage to work.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought of that before you stuck your dick in other holes,” I say and hang up on him. He calls back, and I turn my phone off, I don’t want to hear whatever else he is about to say back to me.
