It's Not You, It's Me, But Mostly You !
There were worse hills to die on in Crawford City; Unit 5A of the Ivory James Tower was now at the top of the list. Back flushed against the cool porcelain of the freestanding tub in the city’s most sought-after bachelor pad. Mya clutched a bottle of scotch to her chest that she knew cost more than her car while trying to put back the pieces of her life. Where had it all gone so wrong?
The week had truly been a masterful work of Hell. Only Satan himself could have engineered the crippling life experiences that were going to pay for her therapist ski chalet in Aspen. Broken down and riddled with enough anxiety to warrant a refillable prescription she never used, trying desperately to cling to her sanity. Just the memory of how Dr. Palmer shoved the pills in her direction sent another wave of misery through her skull. Ultimately the reverse tug of war went into her taking the orange bottle to decorate the medicine cabinet because no matter how badly she broke down, she was never going to turn to pills to deal with her endless stress. That’s all this situation was stress. The only other incentive to fill the prescription was she would be able to continue her weekly sessions on top of the promise that she would put her self-reflection exercises into practice. More dribble from her overpriced shrink, she didn’t have the insurance to cover.
She was a woman on a mission. Case and point this week alone, she absolutely without a doubt could not waste her time living in the moment. Her schedule alone demanded an appetite for bad self-care accompanied by sleep deprivation. Boy, oh boy, did she feed it. Sunday night when Darcy the new girl at the library skipped cataloging the encyclopedias she scarfed an entire cheesecake. Monday, when she fought traffic after a full double shift at work to catch her mother’s introspective take of the musical, “CATS” in the nude she stuffed a bear claw down her throat. During the intermission, she managed a large Mcflurry and two Big Macs to withstand acts V and VII. Not bad right, another lie she told herself as she grabbed a triple shot of Starbucks to catch another Amtrak to Hartford to be at her father’s Banker’s Gala. Child of divorce, what could be done about it? Nevertheless, Tuesday began promptly at four-thirty in the morning between reading time with the kindergarteners and the added bonus of a senior computer lab, she met Dee at Hemming’s Tavern on the other side of town for the weekly gripe fest only your best friend could empathize with.
Wednesday was content to be a debilitating shift at her second job being the personal assistant to the archives benefactor’s second, no third wife Kirsten. Wait, no Kaylee. Thursday was an order of fifty-four problems from her favorite take-out restaurant, she barely remembered the day. The piece de resistance was in full effect Friday night as she lay in a bathtub fully dressed drinking in her boyfriend’s apartment. The most time to herself she’d had since she made the decision to take a break from corporate America to take care of her mom. That eight-month hiatus had crashed, burned, and bleeding penniless. Sadly, hopelessly in love with the city’s biggest idiot.
So, her life was a little imbalanced, sue her! She took care of business no matter what the cost just like her dad had instilled in her from a very young age. Someone has to be responsible.
Too bad she began to resent the idea, for all the trouble it was causing.
Shrugging her shoulders back and hauling herself out of the tub she made her way to the living room to deal with the rug. A flashback of how she’d told Carter that it was ridiculous to buy a white hare rug in the first place. His lifestyle alone was a reason not to have the nuisance. Whether it be his buddies getting rowdy spilling their beers or him just strolling in late like he so often did. All scenarios ended with Mya huddled down cleaning up the mess. She always cleans up his mess.
Soaking her glove-wrapped hand in the foam-topped bucket she curdled at the reality of how right she was. The carpet was soaked in crimson its fluffy frills matted together. Taking the moist rag, she began to work away at the problem. Just like she had with all their problems. Huddled down into her work she began to scrub with more enthusiasm.
This stain was symbol of everything wrong in their relationship. She has to do everything. She's the one who has to be understanding, lenient, supportive, and forgiving. With every wipe, she could feel her rage overtaking her again. Diving her rag back into the bucket now a sea red. She tried to erase not only the stain with every rub but her relationship. There was no use for either. Both were disgustingly soiled and would never be clean especially now as she took the forbidden glance, she’d been avoiding all night.
Among the broken glass minefield of mangled fur and blood was her biggest problem.
Carter.
Blinking back her avalanche of tears she spared a whisper, “This is all your fault.”
She knew he wouldn’t respond though. He couldn’t.
Bathe in a pool or his own blood Carter lay motionless. His gangly lean figure sprawled statue still in the middle of the room where the custom blown glass coffee table used to be.
