Page 107 of Rage

But as I peek over the rim, I can see that I wasn’t.

There’s a flattened-out box on top. One that I know only too well. One that sends a finger of horror creeping up the back of my neck.

A box for a pregnancy test. It’s pink as all fuck, it’s not like I can mistake it. But… Why the fuck is there one of those inourtrash? I guess it must have been there a while. Unless…

unless she intentionally buried it

No, she wouldn’t do that. Why would she?

because she doesn’t want you to know

But… Why—what on earth would compel her to do that?

she cheated. she’s cheating on you with a man, and she didn’t want you to find out

She wouldn’t. She—she couldn’t, she’s never even been?—

but maybe she was curious. maybe she wanted to see what it felt like for real

I choke down the hurt of that thought. She’s never expressed any kind of need… Never even broached the subject in all these years, can’t abide the feeling?—

maybe you’re not enough for her any more…

Betrayal. Utter despair and brutal betrayal are all I can see and hear and feel, standing there, staring at the box for…

Well, it feels like centuries, but it can’t be. It must only be a matter of mere minutes, but every second that ticks by, every beat of my heart, every pulse of blood through my veins makes the rage cloud thicker.

I can’t. I fucking can’t.

I cannot do this today.

I’m barely coherent as I storm back inside, the recycling tub forgotten, discarded on the ground. The slam of the door, the thump of my feet hitting the stairwell, mere background noise to the swelling roar of pure, unadulterated anger I feel as I crash back into our bedroom, throwing the packet at the still sleeping lump.

“What the fuck is this, Katherine?!”

I screech the words, full volume, full pelt, no thought, just blind irritation drawing red on the edges of my vision. My heart is racing, so loud and so fast I fear it might jump out of my rib cage, the thundering pace akin to having done a full-scale workout.

But all I’ve done is run up the stairs to demand an answer.

She’s waking up still, bleary eyed and drowsy, no comprehension at all of why I’m uncontrollably bristling at a rectangular piece of cardboard. But when she notices—when she notices, she panics, and I’m right back to yelling again.

“You fucking hid this from me? What the fuck, Kath?”

“Please, Lara, let me?—”

“Let you what? Tell me you’re cheating? That you got knocked up by a fucking—some fucking guy you’ve been seeing?” I breathe in through my nose, watching her scramble around, pulling up the duvets, pulling on a t-shirt. Hiding herself from me.

Hiding from my accusations? Or from the truth?

“I thought you loved me, Kathy, I thought…” My tears are brimming now, threatening to match the ones coursing down her cheeks, pattering wet splashes on the fabric. She makes no move to wipe them, but I swipe my own with an arm. “I thought we were good together. How could you do this to me? Cheat on me?”

“I didn’t cheat on you, Lara! I never could…”

I can see the truth of that on her face, the wide-eyed panic at the accusation, shock evident in every fiber of her whole being. And, in truth, I know that Kathy would never—could never—lie to me like that. She’s not capable of deception; she’s an open book of anxious innocence and gentle nature. But that still begs the question of what this box is doing in our trash.

I sink to my knees at the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on the pink packaging. “So, then what is this? How? Why do you need a pregnancy test, Katherine?”

“Lar, I… I can’t. I just want to forget, don’t make me… Please.” I climb up on the bed, aching to hold her close, to drive away these demons causing her to have full body shakes. She’s wringing her fingers, barely holding herself together. Whatever this is—whatever has happened to my dear heart, it’s something bad… Devastating, even.

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