Page 19 of Broken Clocks
I looked to the clock above his head. It was 11 p.m. That meant one of his clients was in jail again, and he had to go get them out. Back to work. Business as usual.
“It’s okay,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear.
“I’ll be back. Wait for me, and we’ll talk.”
“Uh huh.”
I closed my eyes. Not because I was tired, but because I didn’t want to see his face anymore.
I didn’t open them again until I heard his front door close.
Still, I didn’t cry.
I knew if I started, I might never stop.
I clamped my fist between my teeth, bit down hard enough for the skin to break. The metallic taste of my own blood spread over my tongue, but it grounded me. Kept the sob lodged deep in my chest from escaping.
Until I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
So I screamed.
Loud. Guttural.
Then I got up.
His scent in the room made me nauseous. I screamed again, this time knocking everything off his dresser. Expensive cologne bottles, lotions, perfumes he’d bought me—all that shit shattered on the wood floor like my heart had.
I hurt.
Everywhere.
Inside. Outside. In places I didn’t know could ache.
And I needed that pain to stop.
I would’ve sold my soul right then just to go back in time. Sitacross from Isaiah in that café and pretend not to see Donte walk in.
Hindsight is 20/20, they say. And right now, everything looked clear as fucking day.
I never should’ve gotten involved with his ass. He was selfish. Self-indulgent. A self-righteous motherfucker.
He didn’t appreciate shit. I poured into this man, and it was like trying to fill a cracked glass. He was always leaking. Always needing.
There were times I got on my knees to pray for him because I saw how heavy the world sat on his shoulders. I wanted God to ease his path, to make room for him to breathe.
He didn’t deserve me—or shit I did for him.
I cooked. I cleaned. I played maid and porn star.
Washed his clothes, folded his shit, ironed his shirts for court.
I raged through his room, yanked his TV from the wall. When it hit the ground and shattered, I felt a sick kind of peace. He loved that TV. Bought it with his first big paycheck to unwind with sports after long court days.
Next, I grabbed scissors and tore through his sheets, slicing the comforter, the pillowcases—everything. Still, no tears.
I stopped at the idea of bleaching his clothes—not out of mercy, but because I loved him. As pathetic as that was. I wanted his career to flourish. He couldn’t show up in court in bleach-stained Armani. And with student loans and his momma’s lifestyle? He damn sure couldn’t afford to replace them.
I was stupid.
