Page 21 of At My Worst

“Fuck!” I scream as I wrap my arms around my legs and start to rock back and forth.

I fucked up. I should have never stayed here, and I should have never fucked him.

I am not a good person. I am a fucking horrible person.

I quickly stand up and make my way into my bedroom. I grab the suitcase from the floor and place it on my bed. I turn and stop as I look at myself in the mirror.

“This is because of you, Bianca. We are the way we are because of you,” he says, looking me right in the eyes.

“No, no, no,” I scream as the memory assaults my mind. Those are the words my husband told me a lot at the end.

I run over to the mirror, stopping in front of it. My hands form into fists as I scream and punch the mirror over and over again. My breathing is rapid as I stare at myself through the shattered mirror. The mirror that represents how I look and feel on the inside.

Fuck.

FUCK.

I grab the hand towel and wrap it around my busted and bleeding hand before I quickly turn around and open the closet. Grabbing all the clothes I could, I shoved them into my suitcase, zipped it closed, and grabbed the handle. I grab my laptop, put it in its bag, and throw it over my shoulder.

Everything else can stay. I don’t even fucking care anymore.

I don’t deserve this, him, this place, none of it.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I open my eyes and turn, making my way out of the bedroom.

I stop when I see the front door open and close. Alexander takes a few steps into the living room and stops. His breathing is rapid and unsteady as he looks at the suitcase in my hand.

“I’m leaving. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you. This was a mistake. I need to go.” I slowly approach him, stepping to the side to go around him, but he grabs the suitcase and rips it frommy hands. He drops it on the floor and grabs my arm, pulling me against his hard, safe chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks in a pained voice.

“I should have. I am sorry,” I say, hearing the shakiness in my tone.

“Why did you leave him, Bianca?” He asks softly.

I stand still for a moment, looking over his face, then landing on his deep green eyes. “Because I wasn’t happy. We weren’t good together,” I confess.

“Did he hurt you?” He asks, looking over my face.

“Yes, but not in the way you are thinking,” I say, feeling my heart racing so fast it might bust out of my chest.

“What does that mean?” He asks in a curious but worried voice.

“He didn’t hurt me physically, Alexander. It was emotionally, psychologically, and mentally. It has left me shattered,” I confess.

I want to explain everything to him, I do, but I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know what I am feeling or what the fuck is happening, but I do know one thing. I feel unworthy, unworthy of this man standing in front of me.

“Bianca,” he whispers, shaky, making my chest ache.

“I need to go,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “No.”

I rip my arm from his grip and step back. “I am not good for you,” I say as I set my bag with the laptop on the table.

“I don’t believe you,” he says confidently.

How can he say that?

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