Page 23 of Brittle Heart

After hanging out with Howie a bit longer, I take his advice and call it an early night. Maybe I can do some job hunting online before going to bed.

I unlock the door to our apartment and step inside. Wednesdays are Happy Hour nights at Roberto’s usual bar, so I’ll have a quiet house until Chiara comes back from Monica’s.

I head to the kitchen and start rifling through the cupboards. Even though I’ve already had a burger with Howie, the stress of losing my job is making my emotions go haywire. I need some comfort food to help me cope.

Healthy? Nah. Effective? Abso-fucking-lutely.

When I turn around with a loaf of bread in my hands, I see Roberto standing in the kitchen doorway.

Fuck.

He’s dressed in a grubby, yellow-stained white tank top and dirty sweatpants, clutching a half-empty bottle of vodka. I can practically smell the stench from here.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he slurs at me.

“I—” I start, trying to put some distance between us, but he follows.

“Again, no money! We have a problem, pig?”

“There was an issue at work, but I promise I’ll get you the money soon. I—” I try to explain, but he cuts me off by slamming his palm onto the kitchen counter.

“I don’t care what problems you’ve got. You’re giving me my money now,” Roberto demands, his body swaying slightly.

I don’t have anything to give him. Every penny I have is accounted for. I prepare myself for what’s bound to happen next, retreating into the safe corner of my mind where I always hide when he reduces me to a victim.

Keeping my outward calm, I say, “I don’t have your money.”

The next moment, an unbearable pain shoots through my left shoulder, followed by a sharp pain in my temple before I feel something warm trickle down the side of my face. In shock, I look at Roberto, who is staring at what’s left of the vodka bottle. He’s only holding the neck. The rest is scattered in shards around us on the floor.

“You’re lucky I didn’t aim for your head like I wanted to. I want my money. I don’t care how you get it,” he growls and drops the bottleneck, which shatters into a thousand pieces. “And get me another bottle of vodka, dammit!” Then he stomps to the living room, where the television flicks on.

I’m in shock, feeling my pulse throb in my shoulder and temple. With trembling fingers, I gingerly touch the tender area of my temple, feeling the wetness of blood and the raised skin. The sharp sting that follows makes me wince, drawing a pained breath.

Fuck.

Avoiding the shards of glass, I make my way to the bathroom. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I see a small piece of glass lodged in my temple. Blood trickles down the side of my face, staining my collar.

At least it was vodka. That shit is sterilizing, right?

I look closer, and a cold chill runs down my spine at the sight. It’s a small piece, but it’s embedded pretty deep. I take a shaky breath, my mind racing.

I need to get it out.

I open the medicine cabinet, searching for the small first-aid kit I know is in there. I take a pair of tweezers from the kit and quickly clean them by running them under hot water.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I carefully position the tweezers and try to minimize the shaking of my hand. I take another deep breath. Then, with one quick, firm pull, I tug the shard free. A sudden gush of blood follows, and I hiss at the sharp pain. I quickly press a piece of gauze to the wound, feeling the warmth of my own blood seeping through.

After a moment, the bleeding slows. I dampen a washcloth with cool water and gently wipe away the blood from my face, being careful not to disturb the wound. Once clean, I apply antiseptic to the cut, wincing at the sting, and place a bandage over it. Exhausted and shaken, I slide down to sit on the bathroom floor, leaning my back against the door, where I take a moment to breathe.

Once I’m a bit more settled, I look at my shoulder. My shirt is damp from the spilled vodka, but thankfully, the skin beneath it is just red. There are no cuts. I’m hoping it will only be a bad bruise.

Now that the first wave of pain has passed, it doesn’t seem bad enough to need medical attention. It will be sore for a few days, but that’s nothing new.

Getting up, I take one last look in the mirror. “Just two more years,” I whisper to my reflection.

CHAPTERTWELVE

Clay

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