Page 20 of Broken Clocks
Told myself love required patience.
I loved him more than he loved me.
Hell, I loved him more than I loved my own skin.
That realization broke something else inside me.
I clawed at my chest, digging my nails deep enough to scratch skin. The physical pain helped. A little.
But not enough.
So I started punching the wall. Over and over. Until my knuckles split and bled. Until the emotional pain dulled just enough to breathe. Until my heartbeat finally stopped trying to crawl up my throat.
I slid down the wall, pressed my forehead to my knees, and rocked back and forth.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
“I’m strong,” I whispered. “This will not break me.”
Over and over, I repeated it until the words became true.
When I finally stood again, it was daylight. Hours had passed.
I went to his drawer, pulled out his favorite T-shirt and basketball shorts—the ones he told me not to take anymore.
I slipped them on anyway.
He owed me. I spent nights when he was down reminding him who he was.
Told him he was brilliant. Powerful. Chosen.
Stayed when he snapped, when the stress of school and court made him cold.
Slept on his chest when he couldn’t sleep. Let him bury himself in me when he needed to feel good.
I let him use me.
And I smiled through it.
Fuck him.
I slid into a pair of his slippers, picked through the laundry for the few clothes I had here, grabbed my shoes, keys, and phone.
Then I walked to his closet, pulled out the shoebox of cash he’donce told me about—
“In case you ever need it and I’m not around,” he’d said.
I took six hundred dollars.
That felt fair. He would pay for the abortion he wanted. I wasn’t about to be one of those women who brought a child into a world where one parent didn’t want it.
That’s all I took. Because he’d been generous ever since he’d been a lawyer. Bought me things. Pretty things.
Things I planned to destroy the second I got home—just like he wanted me to destroy my baby.
A sob slipped out, low and bitter.
But still, no tears.
