Page 16 of Broken King

That picture only reminds me of what I’ll never have, and I hate that. I shouldn’t have to see what could have fucking been every time I open my eyes.

Full of rage, I clumsily grab the picture frame and tear it off the wall, my left hand barely able to hold onto it as I decide where to hide it so I never have to see it again. It falls from my grasp since my left hand isn’t nearly as strong as it needs to be, and I watch as the glass covering the picture shatters at my feet.

“Hey, you okay?” a voice asks behind me, and I look back to see a strange woman with blond hair up in a ponytail and what looks like some white stain on her black t-shirt that travels all the way down to her jeans.

“Go away.”

She grimaces at me and rolls her eyes. “Okay. I’ll take that as a yes.”

When she does as I order her to, I’m relieved. I don’t need some stranger chatting me up. I barely tolerate my own family talking to me.

I stare down at the broken glass and the disheveled picture and wood frame sitting in pieces and shake my head. Whatever made me think I was going to be a major league player?

“So, Ava asked me if I’d give her a hand cleaning this up since she’s feeding the boys,” the woman announces when she walks into my room uninvited with a broom and dustpan in her hands.

“What about go away can’t you comprehend?” I snap.

She looks me up and down and shrugs. “Nothing. Doesn’t change the fact that I need to clean this mess up. Be careful. I see you aren’t wearing shoes.”

I look down my body and see a hint of blood just below where my gray sweatpants end. Wonderful. I’ve already cut my right foot on the glass.

Hobbling into my bathroom, I sit down on the side of the tub and then realize I didn’t grab a Band-Aid first. Could this fuckingday get any worse? Frustrated, I stand up and hobble on one foot over to the linen closet where they’re kept.

Once more, I sit down on the edge of the bathtub and try to open the bandage wrapper, but since I only have one goddamned hand, it doesn’t happen. This is why I don’t get out of bed. How the fuck am I supposed to get the Band-Aid on if I can’t even open the paper over it?

“Here, let me help,” the strange woman says as she walks toward me.

Who the fuck is this person, and why does she think it’s okay to intrude on me when I’m in the fucking bathroom? My fucking bathroom.

“You don’t take a hint very well, do you?” I say as she snatches the Band-Aid out of my grasp.

She easily tears off the paper and the plastic on the back of the bandage. “There you go. One Band-Aid all ready to go.”

I try my best to put it over the cut on the top of my foot, but I can’t because my left hand seems to have a mind of its own. Utterly disgusted, I toss the useless Band-Aid onto the floor and stand up to get another one.

“Okay, see, there’s the problem. You can’t expect it to work on the floor. Let me get you another one, and this time I’ll help. Hang on. In fact, sit back down, okay?” the woman says like I’m aggravating her.

I’m not the one who’s intruding on another person’s privacy.

A couple seconds later, she turns back toward me with the bandage hanging off her hand. I watch as she grabs a white washcloth and wets it under the warm water.

“First off, you should clean the cut, so that’s what I’m going to do. Then I’ll dry it off and put the Band-Aid on, and you’ll be as good as new.”

As she does exactly as she said, I grumble, “I could have done all that myself. I’m not an idiot.”

She doesn’t respond to that, and when she gets the bandage onto my skin and actually covering the cut, she stands up and smiles at me. “All good! Need anything else?”

“I didn’t need that,” I say as I stand up from the side of the tub.

“You’re welcome.”

Glaring at her, I answer, “I didn’t say thank you.”

That stops her, and finally, her helpful façade disappears. “What is your problem anyway? I saw you needed help, so I helped. What’s wrong with that?”

I push past her to walk out into the bedroom and step on another sliver of glass, this time cutting the side of my foot. As much as I don’t want her to see me react, I let out a tiny cry, mostly of disgust that I have to do that whole fucking Band-Aid routine again.

Spinning around, I walk back into the bathroom and grab the box of Band-Aids. She stands in front of me, blocking my way.

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