Page 12 of Shattered Echoes

His words got to me more than I care to admit, and that is the reason for my outburst. My only consolation is that I didn't let him get away with making me feel less of myself.

I had attacked him back with the same energy, but it wasn't enough. I wish I had slapped that silly smirk off his face. I know I am not as attractive as before, thanks to my current predicament, but I don’t need a reminder–much less from him.

With a deep sigh, I try to calm down and not let him get to me anymore. I should be used to his attitude by now, but I can never be used to that man. We are two parallel lines that will never meet. Sometimes, I wonder if he enjoys pissing me off, and so maybe that is why he always gets on my nerves.

The smell of the paints that filled the air catches my attention, and I turn to look at a couple of cans laying carelessly on the floor. These paint cans are my joy, the only things keeping me sane.

Painting is the one thing keeping me going; it expresses all my pain and anxiety. I have been painting on walls across the town—basically anything that I can draw upon. This routine has been of so much help to me. It’s like therapy for my soul.

Never at any point in my life, as an artist, have I even thought about venturing into street art because I didn't think I would have any reason to do so. My brand and street art weren’t a fit for it. However, given the turnout of events, street art has proven so helpful to me now, especially as a coping mechanism.

Whispers of a mysterious street artist have flown far and wide across the entire town, and people are talking. My work is getting more attention than I am. Ironic.

No one knows who the artist is, but they appreciate the work, and that is a big win in my book. Then there is the sheriff's department and their anti-graffiti ordinances. I have been lying low and have been very careful when engaging in my covert activities.

My mind drifts back to Antonio Amato, and I really hope that he hadn't seen the paint cans flopping out of my bag. And even if he had, I hope he wasn't smart enough to make anything out of it. Besides, it could have been a coincidence that I have spray paints in my bag when there is a mysterious street painter at large in town…. right?

Exhaling sharply, I walk over to gather the cans littered across the floor, then neatly stow them back in my bag, securing it with a zip.

Now a lot calmer, I think about how Antonio looked a few minutes ago. Anger at his demeaning words has clouded my eyes, but in fact, he is a lot hotter than I remember him to be.

He's not so bad.

However, I couldn't help but notice that he seemed lonely, and that there was a familiar darkness in his eyes. Behind that arrogance was a broken man battling with his own demons.

I guess what they say is true. It takes one to know one.

Something was definitely up with him and whatever it was, it wasn't good. But I don't have the luxury to worry about him right now.

Just like Antonio, I have my own demons lurked within me. They are the ones keeping me up late at night, plaguing my sleep with nightmares. The battle with them is the reason I look the way I do — the reason he had the effrontery to address me with disregard for my feelings.

It hurt, but he was right. I am not the woman I used to be. I used to be a lot more vibrant than this. However, life happened and here I am, looking like a warrior beaten down by several battles.

Like the name of the town, Shadow's Bend, my spirit is bent, broken, and I am wallowing in the shadows of the darkness that have completely enveloped my life.

No matter how hard I try to mask my pain, it still shows. I am like the walking dead, looking all pale and shabby, which is why I have been avoiding familiar faces. I don't want anyone being nosy about my life.

I let out a sharp exhale and head straight for the bathroom, intending to see what Antonio had seen.

The door opens, and I walk inside, turn on the faucet, and wash my face. With both hands on the concrete sink, I jerk my head to look at my reflection. With a heavy sigh, I wipe a hand over the misted glass and gaze at the clear image of the woman looking back at me.

The harsh fluorescent light casts an unflattering glow, accentuating the dark circles under my eyes. I blink slowly, my eyelids feeling heavy.

Tossing and turning most nights has taken its toll. My reflection is a mere shadow of my former self - the rosy warmth has drained from my cheeks, leaving a sallow paleness behind.

I instinctively hug my arms across my midsection, as if trying to hold myself together against the onslaught of anxious thoughts constantly battering my mind.

My hair, once lively and vibrant, now hangs limply, devoid of its former vitality, a testament to the exhaustion weighing upon my dropped shoulders. My heart skips despite knowing that is my reality. The weight of Antonio’s words is drowning me, and I am tempted to weep for the woman I have become.

In that moment, I miss the person I used to be, the fun one, so full of life — the woman that had big dreams and nothing could shake her. I miss her. I miss her so much.

It hurt knowing I used to be better than I am, and that it seems like I am not making any progress at all. I curse the day I met my ex-husband, and sometimes, I wonder how my life would have turned out if my father hadn't been so controlling. He just didn't care about my happiness. All he thought about was how good the arranged marriage would be for the family.

As I stand there, looking at my reflection, my mind travels back to the very day, a couple of years back — the day my fate was sealed, the day that my journey down this path of horrors and nightmare began.

I was standing before the mirror in my bathroom, all dressed up in one of my favorite red gowns because Dad had said to look my best. He couldn't afford for tonight to not go as he initially planned.

The woman that was looking back at me was so beautiful, so full of life. Her eyes sparkled with vitality, reflecting the light with a luminous glow. She was the embodiment of beauty and grace, a vision of confidence and allure that captivated anyone who beheld her reflection, including me. Her hair cascaded in glossy waves, dancing with life and vitality, framing her face in a halo of beauty. Each feature of her face exuded a youthful energy, from the rosy flush of her cheeks to the captivating brightness of her smile — however faint.

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