Page 39 of Krampus Kruk
Money can’t buy everything, but it can buy convenience and urgency, both of which I need this morning.
I tap out a few more messages—people who can run fast errands, deliver what I can’t. I’m not showing up empty-handed.
31
Iunlock the side door to my mom’s house as quietly as possible, easing it open like I’m back in high school, sneaking in past curfew. I make it three steps into the kitchen before I hear her voice. Then, she rounds the corner.
Her blue eyes land on my neck—and immediately, they squeeze shut, like she’s seen something she doesn’t want to.
“I have too much going on to yell at you right now,” she snaps. “Storming out, turning off your phone … acting like a fucking child. I don’t even want to know where you were last night. Just—shower, cover that up, and put on a smile. Your grandparents will be here before lunch.”
Merry Christmas to you too.
Although, yeah—I deserved that.
I almost sayI fucked a guy older than youjust to watch her combust, but that’s way too far.
You’re triggered. Nothing you say right now will help.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks as I pass her, on my way to shower.
And there goes the plan.
“What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong withyou?” The words explode out of me before I can stop them. “Why do you think I left yesterday? Do you even care? It’s because you spend your whole day spoutingnewsthat is only carefully curated bullshit and try to call it truth. Look at my degrees. Listen to my words. You don’t have some secret access to the truth. You’re being fed a narrative that keeps you watching by people monetizing your attention, and you’re eating it up, blissfully unaware that this circus is just that. Yourdeitiesare money hungry people playing into the attention economy. They would be making content for anything that gets them views, trust me.”
She scoffs, arms crossing.
“I love a good internet conspiracy theory, but I know it’s just that. Everything seems like a conspiracy when you don’t know how anything works.”
“Go back to the city then, where your type of people live.”
The words hit harder than they should. Tears immediately well in the corners of my eyes.
No one wants me.
I slam the bathroom door shut, flick the water on, and step inside before it even warms. I shiver, the cold water sluicing down my body. I press my palms to the tile and let myself sob.
Here it is. The regret. The crash. The come-down I always pretend won’t come—but it always does.
I slide down into the tub, knees pulled to my chest, as water crashes over me. I cry until my stomach aches, until my throat is raw, until the tears run out and I can finally breathe again.
I sniffle and decide I’ll tell my therapist everything. Another hookup. Another fight with my mom. More badges in my collection of bad decisions.
Why do I always think it’ll be different? Thatsomeman—anyman—is going to make me feel whole?
Fuck Piotr fucking Kruk.
It was perfect until it wasn’t. Well—it was fucked from the start, but it was raw in the best way.
And now, I get to see these bruises every day until they fade. More punishment. More reminders I’m still the broken fucking girl no one wants.
I stare at my scorpion tattoo. The black ink covers years of pain. At least I’m not reaching for a knife. That’s a win. Fucking morbid but true. It’s been almost four years since I last did that.
I can take care of myself—because I have to. No one else will.
I breathe deep and hold it, comforting myself in what I’ve accomplished.
You make more money than most people.
