Page 4 of Strung Along
Maddox shouts from the living room, “She’s vicious! Make sure all of your things are tucked away, Anna!”
“Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous he isn’t about to take part in this destruction. Take the jug,” Braxton orders, extending the bleach to me.
My fingers itch with the urge to take it, and I no longer have it in me to resist the rage warming my blood. “Fine.”
The sudden weight of it threatens to tip me off balance as I loop my fingers through the handle. I steel my spine and take the cap off. The smell is immediate, and I scrunch my nose before turning to the bed.
“Let it out. He deserves to feel your wrath,” Braxton coos.
“My wrath?” I want to laugh, but it dies in my throat.
“That’s right. The wrath of a scorned lover. A bad bitch’s revenge.”
I’ve never considered myself a bad bitch, but maybe that’s part of my problem. This is my initiation, it would seem, and I refuse to not make the club.
With one swing of my arm, the clear liquid is splashing over the bed and settling over the pile of expensive clothes. The scent of it fills the room, burning my nose, but I don’t stop dumping it. Not until only a few drops linger, splattering onto the ruined dress shirt, and then . . . nothing.
Dropping the bottle onto the ground, I prowl to the ensuite bathroom and dig through the cabinet beneath the sink until I find the small bottle of blue toilet bowl cleaner. Unscrewing the top, I step in front of the closet and squirt the thick substance over the clothes still hanging on the rod. Suit jackets, folded pants, a long wool coat that he claimed was too luxurious for the streets of Vancouver.
When that’s empty too, I move on to the dresser drawers. One after the other, I alternate between the condiments Braxton brought from the fridge, soaking the clothes with ketchup, mayonnaise, and vinegar. The stench is almost stomach churning, but I can’t stop. Tears burn my eyes, pain heavy in my chest. A pain that only dulls when I’m destroying an item that I know means something to him. It’s evil beyond belief, but I don’t allow myself to focus on that guilt too much.
The moment Braxton silently hands me a bag of flour, I’m spinning to deposit it on the bed. Clouds of white fill the air as I hit the clothes. Over and over, my palms make contact, the slick of bleach mixing with powder beneath them, sticking to my fingers. A cry climbs my throat and pierces the silence before I use all of my strength to shove the clothes off the bed. They fly across the room and land on the floor with a wet plop.
My hands are shaking. I wipe them on my thighs and then realize I’ve smeared the white goop all over them. Tears burn my cheeks. They don’t stop coming, regardless of how furiouslyI blink. My breaths are shallow and tight. Each one is more painful than the last. My sticky fingers curl into the chest of my shirt, tugging and tugging.
Arms wrap around me, and I bury my face in my sister’s shoulder. Her hold is warm and familiar and comforting, but the sobs don’t stop. Only once I’ve cried so long my throat is raw and my eyes are so swollen that they’re hard to keep open do I peel myself away and wipe at my face.
Maddox lingers in the bedroom now, a pained expression on his face. I focus on my sister and the shine in her blue eyes. Her smile is as wobbly as mine.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t apologize. You needed that,” she replies. Her hands cup my shoulders and then squeeze. “Ready to go?”
I take in the room and swallow my gasp. It’s a disaster. One I’m almost a little proud of. He’s going to lose his mind when he sees what I’ve done, but isn’t that karma? At least now he has an idea of the destruction in my chest.
There’s no future for us anymore. If he ever wanted one with me in the first place, the events of the past twenty-four hours would have been nothing but a nightmare. This isn’t my home. It never was.
I stare at the ring on my finger and fight another wave of tears, these ones angry and bitter. The thin silver band slips off easily.
When I toss it on the bed, it hits the dirty comforter with a thump so loud it echoes in my mind long after we wheel my luggage out of the condo and I shut the door for the final time.
3
ANNALISE
I never picturedmyself living in a small town. Growing up in Vancouver, British Columbia, I’m used to city living. The traffic jams during rush hour and busy streets with street performers on every corner.
Cherry Peak is the opposite of Vancouver. Not only is it in an entirely different province, but it’s a town small enough to have only one family-run grocery store, a library that splits a building with the town hall, and one school that houses all grades, kindergarten to twelve.
My life in Cherry Peak, Alberta, is a far shot from how it was back home, and that’s exactly what I need right now.
The November breeze runs through my hair as I walk down Main Street, taking in the smells from the singular coffee shop and the farmers’ market on the corner. Flowers, coffee, and fresh air. The number of looming trees that surround the town was overwhelming at first glance, but I’ve grown a bit more used to them now. If you know where to look, you can spot the Rocky Mountains peeking through the shorter, white-tipped trees. I still haven’t gotten used to the beauty of the snow-peaked mountains. They’re a punch to the gut every morning. A good punch.
I’ve been a resident of thisblink-and-you’ll-pass-ittown for two weeks now, but this is the first time I’ve had the confidence to walk this street. Before today, I found more than a few excuses to keep myself locked away in my new rental home, only slinking into the real world to work at the hair salon that took me in like a lost puppy the day I came begging for a job. Unpacking, cleaning, internet stalking my ex—I’ve come up with just about every reason not to have to converse with the people living here more than necessary. But I can’t be a hermit forever.
I can’t hide from real life, even if the thought of starting a new one here makes my chest ache and my head throb.
Like every time I walk around this town, heads turn, and curious eyes watch me. When I’m working, it’s easier to ignore the attention. I can concentrate on my job and not the questions they’re dying to ask me.Where did I come from? Why did I move here? How long am I staying?