Page 1 of The Longshot

ONE

C H E L S I E

ONE MONTH AGO

They say reality is like a slap in the face.

A figurative term, so to speak.

A metaphor that depicts the burning sensation of one’s touch making an impact against another.

But this… this is no figurative reality.

This is reality.

A reality that stares deep into my eyes, backs me into a corner, and leaves me desperately trying to find a way out.

I swallow deeply.

These outbursts happen so suddenly. So unsolicited and far too often.

I resist the urge to raise my palm to help soothe the stinging sensation that refuses to rid itself from my left cheek. Instead, all I can seem to do is look right back into the eyes of the perpetrator responsible for it.

There’s a silence.

There always seems to be a silence.

That’s the problem.

He never resorts to talking things through—it always just comes down to this.

“Simon.” Calling my boyfriend's name is a pitiful attempt to ease his tense frame as he towers over me. “You’re drunk.” I lower my voice as the tears threaten to pool from my eyes. “Please… stop. This isn’t you.”

For a moment, I’m naïve to believe that my plea is enough to calm him down. But I’m desperate. He needs to calm down.

There’s over 150 people outside, comprised of my parents’ closest friends and family, all here to celebrate my father’s retirement.

Today was supposed to be a day of celebrating new beginnings, and for a while, it was. Until Simon caught a glimpse of me talking to another guy—one who is nothing more than a friend to me yet what he deemed a threat to him. And so, what I thought would be a day full of fresh starts has transpired into this vicious recurring cycle.

Simon’s abrupt tug on my arm as he pulled me away from the party somehow guided us into my parents’ greenhouse at the end of the garden, where we were out of sight and out of earshot.

Simon knows better than to act like this in public. Only behind closed doors will he behave this way… treat me like this.

I couldn’t tell you exactly what he was saying as he screamed at me. The ringing in my ears as a result of his impact forced my whole world to go mute. Now, as I come back to my senses, I watch as his mouth moves slowly.

“Excuse me?” he grimaces, clenching his jaw with a twitch in his eye. “You… you think I’m drunk?”

The disillusionment in my mind hardly masks the regret I feel for my choice of words, despite how true they prove to be. The party started only a few hours ago, but Simon has been the most receptive to the open bar. I wanted to tell him to slow down, but hell, I know better than to stop him.

I attempt to speak, unsure of what exactly I’m about to say to mitigate this mess, but I know that anything is better than nothing, yet before I can muster so much as a single syllable, I’m cut short.

“You fucking answer me when I’m talking to you!” Simon’s fist slams into the wall behind me, subsequently forcing little shards of glass to shatter in every direction. I squint my eyes, using my hands to shield my face, but it’s no use. The damage is done—the wounds have begun.

With reluctance, I eventually reopen them, and through my blurred vision, I take into account not only his bloody knuckles but just how intensely his eyes have transformed into a fit of rage.

This is a mess.

This is a nightmare.

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