Page 80 of Sacred Vow
Except for maybe Caesar. If he were to walk in and see me like this, I would die. I would physically melt into my floorboards, leaving nothing but my shitty, stained shirt behind. Though that might just be the kick up the ass I need to get myself off the couch.
How pathetic is that? I’m officially one of those girls who spends a week crying over a man—a man who specifically warned me not to fall in love with him. I suppose it’s my own fault. I didn’t heed his warning. I flew straight into the danger zone, not giving a damn how it would destroy me. I was stupid enough to believe that falling in love wasn’t something I was capable of. Now it’s been four days since I’ve seen him, and all I’ve done is stare at my phone, hoping like hell he messages me. Even if all he says is that I’m a fool for letting him get that close.
Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.
Even more so that I’ve spent the last two hours figuring out my new Cricut machine and making my own slogan shirts instead of having to order them online, and to be completely honest, this shit is harder than it seems.
I put the finishing touches on my newMy son’s girl screams louder than yoursshirt. It looks horrendous, proving once and for all why I should never be allowed near an arts and crafts table. Sure, was I pathetic enough to order a shirt four sizes too big for me so that when I wear it, it feels as though it’s one of Caesar’s? Absolutely.
As I bawl my ridiculous eyes out, I pull the massive shirt right over my head, hiding my stained one beneath before slinking through my small apartment and looking at myself in the full-length mirror.
I’m a literal mess—but with a clean and slightly lopsided new slogan shirt, I’m practically brand new. We’re just going toignore the stench that’s been wafting off me for the better part of two days.
Goddamn it.
I flop down against my bed, starfishing on this bitch, when my phone chimes from somewhere in the living room. I spring off my bed like a fucking frog on crack, run into the living room, and scavenge through the flood of blankets, cushions, and food scraps left discarded on the couch. I’m hoping like hell it’s Caesar coming to his damn senses and realizing that he can’t possibly live without me.
I realize it’s unlikely, but a girl can dream, right?
Finding my phone shoved between the couch cushions next to the soggy banana peel I lost on Tuesday, I scoop it up and immediately swipe my thumb across the screen, desperate to find Caesar’s text. Only when I find a flood of notifications from The Vag Destroyer, and absolutely nothing from Caesar, I crumble to the sticky floorboards, wishing like fuck that I hadn’t spilled a whole glass of juice down here.
What the hell is wrong with me? Surely this is rock bottom because there’s no way it could possibly get worse than this.
Giving in to the torment, I open the notifications from The Vag Destroyer one by one. It had gotten better earlier in the week, and I can only assume that had everything to do with Caesar, but now the asshole has come back with a vengeance.
My video and still shots have been posted hundreds of times across multiple accounts on different platforms, each with vile comments about me being a skank whore bitch, needing to be taught a lesson, even if it means slamming me down and taking it from me while I scream for it to stop.
It’s disgusting, and with every new post I read, my patience dissipates until there’s nothing left, and despite knowing that I should ignore it and leave it for Caesar to deal with, I take matters into my own hands. Besides, if Caesar needs me to gocold turkey and move on with my life, then relying on him to solve all of my online issues needs to stop.
He’s more than helped enough as it is. Whatever cybersecurity he put in place last week has been working wonders. Mostly. Every time that video is uploaded, it’s generally removed, justpoof, disappears out of thin air, but not before it gets a chance to rack up thousands of views first. It’s humiliating.
Finding the main account for The Vag Destroyer, I open a new message and finally say everything I’ve been needing to say to this little snake.
Tilly: Your tribute page to my pussy is getting embarrassing. You’re posting about me like it’s a full-time job. I hope the benefits include therapy because you clearly need it, you crazed psychopath. If I wanted a pussy fan club, I would have at least found someone who’s not gagging with desperation. Touch some fucking grass, asshole. You wanted attention? Well, congratulations. You finally got it. You’re a virgin, aren’t you? Because anybody who’d actually experienced what it was like to be inside a woman wouldn’t embarrass themselves online the way you do. You’re pathetic, posting about me the way you do and threatening to rape me. Get a fucking life. You wouldn’t last five seconds in a room with me. You’re not scary, you’re just sad. A lonely, sad, virgin screaming for attention. You’ve never been the big man in a room. You’re not the hero, you’re just a cautionarytale, doomed to spend the rest of your life using your mom’s backne cream to jerk off to pictures of your aunt Gertrude on the internet. You’re not cool. You’re not funny. You’re just pathetic.
My thumbs hurt by the time I get through it and hit send, not giving a single shit about the consequences. I’ve said what I had to say, and while I’m more than aware that this will probably provoke him and escalate his bullshit, I just can’t seem to care. At least I feel better for the time being, and that’s all that matters. For now.
Satisfied that I’ve well and truly dealt with that issue, I toss my phone back to the couch before letting myself fall straight after it, kicking my feet up as though I haven’t got a care in the world in my four-day-old filth.
All thoughts of The Vag Destroyer fall from my mind, and just as I switch back to feeling sorry for myself—beep.
Fuck.
My eyes widen, and I dive for my phone once again, suddenly not feeling quite so brave. It’s one thing to put the asshole in his place, but I hadn’t expected him to respond, let alone quite so quickly. I figured it would have taken him at least six business days to read through the essay I just sent.
Grabbing my phone with shaky hands, I pick it up and let out a heavy sigh, relief pounding through my veins as I find nothing but a new text from my grandmother.
G’ma: Wait until you get home. You’re going to tie me up like a rotisserie chicken, you bad, bad boy.
WHAT IN THE EVER-LOVING FUCK?
Even my grandmother is getting screwed while I’m stuck on the couch getting screwed over.
Tilly: Seriously, Grandma? You really need to check who you’re sending these messages to. I’d hate to think what kind of chicken porn you’ve been sending to your accountant by accident.
G’ma: Oh, I’m sorry, love. Just trying to text your Poppop. You know how tricky this phone is. They certainly didn’t have technology like this when I was young. Though I wasn’t referring to chicken porn, sweetheart. It was a metaphor about how your Poppop should tie me up like one. Not an actual chicken, love. I know that Poppop of yours certainly has a kinky side, but I draw the line at bestiality.
Jesus fucking Christ.
