Page 25 of Repluse

There were so many times as a kid that I’d lie in my bed, cold, hungry, and scared, but even then, I don’t think I felt as alone as I do right now.

I don’t care about me. I’ll get a job waitressing, cleaning, anything, but that won’t give me the income I’ll need to keep my mum at Saint McCarten’s, or at any facility. And how do I hold down a job and look after my mum at the same time? I’ve always considered myself a strong woman. My childhood set me up to be that or die. I feel emotion, but I’ve been conditioned over the years to hide it, so I’m not a crier, but as the weights of helplessness and hopelessness press down on me, I sit alone in a two-million-dollar apartment that will never be mine, and I cry.

I allow myself five minutes to wallow in my self-pity before I start looking at jobs on my phone, then I start looking at rental properties and, once again, I become overwhelmed with not only the lack of availability, but the costs involved.

Eventually, I set my phone down, and take a shower. The custom-made cast has Velcro straps around it, making it easy to remove while I wash, I just have to remember to keep my wrist completely immobile. Once I’m done and changed into my pyjamas, I feel a lot better.

Picking up my phone, I scroll to Sam Franks in my contacts. This is where I have both Frankie and Sam’s numbers stored. My now justified paranoia had me leaving my backup phone at Frankie’s place, so I stored the numbers under a fake name. These numbers are also for backup phones. The only people whohave them are the three of us. I try both of them, but neither pick up, and the hollowness in my heart and the pit of my stomach intensifies.

To occupy my overthinking brain, I use a delivery app and order some groceries to get me through the next few days. While waiting for them to arrive, I try Ella and Marcie’s numbers. They both go to voicemail, so I try Frankie and Sam again, and they both ring out.

My delivery arrives, and I make myself a herbal tea and some buttered sourdough toast. Switching on the television, I put on a mindless reality show, but my sleepy time berry tea does its job, and within an hour, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. So, I take myself off to bed, no one returns my calls, and my husband doesn’t bother to check in and make sure I’m okay. Despite this, and the general state of my life, I somehow fall asleep almost instantly.

CHAPTER 8

Mila

Three days, I sit in our apartment. It’s been the longest time in my life I’ve gone without any kind of contact with another human being, and the most I’ve ever cried.

I’m beyond disappointed with myself for being so weak and succumbing to my tears, but I’m even more disappointed in Sam and Frankie. I’ve called them every day I’ve been here but haven’t received a single response. This morning—the third morning—I woke up angry. When I looked at myself in the mirror, the rage I felt bubbling in my belly made me want to punch my fist right through it.

The bruising is at its peak. The whole side of my face and my cheekbone are a lovely shade of blue and purple. Turning my head to the side to get a clear view of the damage, I hold up my broken wrist in its black cast and take a selfie. Captioning it: ‘Well This Happened!’ in my fit of rage, I then send the image to Sam and Frankie.

My phone rings immediately. ‘Sam Franks Work’ appears on my screen, letting me know it’s Sam calling. Frankie’s number is stored as ‘Mobile’.

My heart and stomach lurch. He is the person whose betrayal has cut deepest. He’d been so fucking concerned for me over the weekend. The way he held me, looked at me. I honestly felt a connection, and thought he had, too.

“He felt a connection, all right. The one his dick made with my mouth, pussy, arse, and every other part of me,” I say out loud as I watch the call end.

As the ‘missed call, no message left’ notification comes through, my phone rings again. It rings off, and this time he leaves a message. I don’t listen to it, though, but then a text comes through.

Sam: WTAF, Mila! Pick up your fucking phone. We need to talk. Where the fuck are you? Are you safe? Talk to me, beautiful girl, please! I’ve missed you.

“Yeah right, you’ve fucking missed me. Missed filling my holes, more like!” Again, I’m talking out loud to no one. Am I going mad? Have just three days alone driven me to insanity already, or is it the result of the trauma, lies, and deceit I’ve lived with, endured, and dealt with—or not—my entire life?

I find a playlist, and blast Rihanna’s “Breakin’ Dishes” from my phone. As I walk out to the kitchen in search of something to bake or break—I’m not sure which—my phone rings again. I need to grow the fuck up. Why did I call and text if I didn’t want to speak to either of them?

Swiping my phone, I answer with, “Wha?—”

I haven’t even got the T out when Sam roars down the phone, “What the fuck is going on? Who fucking did that to you? Where the fuck are you? You safe?”

“If you’d picked your phone up three fucking days ago, you might have answers to all those questions,” I snap around the lump in my throat.

I’m Mila fucking Grace, I will not show this man that I care!

“I’ve picked up now. I’m calling you now. Stop being a child and tell me what the fuck happened. Who fucking did that to you?”

A snort escapes my nose. I’m not sure if it’s a sob or a laugh trying to free itself, but I do know it is driven by relief, gratitude that someone out there fucking cares.

I press my fingertips to my lips and take a couple of seconds to compose myself.

“Scott,” I almost choke on his name; that’s how repulsed I am by that man.

After a long pause, very calmly, very quietly, Sam asks, “Where are you?”

“The apartment in the city.”

“Meet me in the parking garage in ten minutes.”

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