Broken Apart

She woke up the next afternoon at one o’clock. Her eyes were swollen, and the sky was gray. From the moment she woke up, she wished for sleep. Once she managed to drag her faint body out of bed, she went to the kitchen and brewed some black coffee in her favorite blue and pink striped mug to go along with the processed toaster pastry she decided to eat for breakfast. Who has the energy to make real food when you could instead use that energy to hate yourself?
She finished the pastry and brought the rest of her coffee up to her room where she looked at old photos of her and her ex-boyfriend together. The salty tears began to gather in her eyes, although, not quite enough to fall. She came to an old prom photo of him spinning her around in her long, baby blue, tool dress. The tears start to blind her when she turns to the next picture, a picture of the two holding hands in front of the ocean kissing on their one year anniversary. Her face became stained with tears, her day old make-up streamed down her face, washed away by the waterfalls streaming from her eyes. Her lips quivered as she grieved the loss of her best friend. He left her heart-broken. Alone. All over a text. A goddamned text that read, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t think we have a spark anymore. I can’t go on in a relationship like this. It’s over.”
The sadness turned into rage when she threw the photos across the room, and launched herself across the bed where her puffy face would land on a warm, welcoming pillow. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose was bright red and stuffy, her lips were swollen, and her cheeks were drenched. Her body trembled as she didn’t know what to do. Thoughts flooded through her mind. “Why am I like this? Why did I ever think he loved me? He’s such an asshole. I never want to see him again.”
She pulled herself together enough to think clearly. She got up, wiped her eyes, put on some makeup, grabbed her purse, and went for a walk that brought her to his house. Right as she was about to pass, an idea came to her. In her purse she had some spray paint from an art project she had been working on earlier that week. The dim sky disguised her as she walked toward the back of his house where his window was. She knew he wasn’t home because his car wasn’t in the driveway and he never parks in the garage. The can of black paint rattled around when she took it out. The metal ball clanked back an forth while she shook the can to prepare it for the revenge she so badly needed to bring upon him. She took off the cap and began painting. She drew vulgar phrases on the glass, scribbles, anything that would be difficult for him to clean off. She wanted him to be miserable. He tore her apart, so she wanted to make his life a living hell for as long as she felt she needed.
Once she was finally satisfied, she put the can away, sneaked around to the sidewalk and carried on with her walk. As she walked further and further, she realized what she had done. She illegally painted her ex’s window with permanent paint. Did he deserve it? Probably, but that wasn’t her responsibility to do it. But what he did to her was so much worse. He destroyed her life, wasted her time, brainwashed her, and manipulated her. He made her think he loved her just so he could break up with her. Asshole. The rage was building again. She collapsed to the ground, dramatically tore out grass, and threw it across to ground. The tears started to roll down her cheeks. She let everything out. She sobbed, screamed, and flailed her arms hard. As her temper tantrum came to an end, a dark figure approached her. It was a man, probably in his mid twenties, a couple years older than her. He reached his muscular arm out toward her to help her up. She grabbed it and pushed herself up from the ground. The two said nothing to each other, but exchanged prolonged eye contact and her slight smile of gratitude, before she turned to go home.
She curled back up in bed with her favorite teddy bear, and fell asleep. The day was exhausting for the whole eight hours that she was awake. What was the point of being awake for a life that’s just going to fuck you over and over again?

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