There’s a crazy lady in my living room.
I watch her with curious detachment. Her lips curl as she spits out foul tasting vulgarities. Pacing the length of the room, feet jerk in agitation. Heels strike angry staccato on hardwood. Her face, flushed with rage, bears traces of apology, mortification. This isn’t her, not as I know her. She’s a runaway train, hijacked by some inner demon.
Betrayal. Lies. Rejection. The atrocities steamroll her. Yet, it’s their smug, narcissistic countenances that push her over the edge. I watch the fall in slow motion as they present a united front. They’re composed, exchanging glances, private smiles. Who smiles at a time like this? They masquerade as spectators, watching a sordid episode of some daytime melodrama. As if they play no part in it. They seem not to understand that they are in the wrong. Perhaps they just don’t care.
She built this life, struggled, sacrificed. Working two jobs she rolled out her entire savings, investing in the building blocks of a bright future. A future he claims no longer includes her. Unceremoniously replaced, but not told. At least, not until she figured it out for herself. I wonder how long he would have pretended if she hadn’t forced this confrontation.
She begs, pleads, accuses. They remain unmoved, sitting too close together on the couch that she paid for. Their indifference fuels her thunder. How can he so calmly toss away their history? He had promised her forever, so she gave him everything. Now he was discarding her like a soiled tissue.
She slings insults, vicious in creativity. The poison that drips from her lips stings. It surprises her. She’s always tightly controlled, unflappable. It surprises, but doesn’t stop her. Tonight, something has shaken loose from a hidden place. Their cruelty gives the darkness that’s been growing inside her free rein.
Fine. Get out, she screams. The finality of her anguish echoes in my ears. A purse follows two jackets, pitched into the driveway. A drizzling rain soaks them through. The gentle drops seem anticlimactic, for she is a hurricane. The weather should be sympathetic, howling winds and torrential downpours.
They look at her, momentarily stunned, before gathering their sodden belongings. The headlights as they drive away, spotlight her through the window. She sinks to the floor, too exhausted to even cry.
There’s a broken lady in my living room. I’m beginning to suspect she’s me.