Fervour

Love was for pussies.

That was the only thought that ran through her mind as she lay curled up on the sofa.

The lights dimmed, curtains drawn and a sense of misery in the air. It was a cliché as any heartbroken woman sounded.

She’d always prided herself on her strength. She’d thought hard to get to where she was on her own. To be as independent as she could be.

To have it all feel like it was falling apart because of one man was ridiculous.

He’d left her.

Prick.

She should have seen it coming. Tom had always struggled with commitment and its meaning. His behaviour had changed in the past few months. A clear red flag.

Not fucking clear enough obviously, she thought to herself.

She didn’t need him anyway. She had made a strong career for herself. She was an award-winning author. She had a nice place to live and her bank account was more than full. She had built herself up from almost nothing and she wasn’t going to let him take any of it from her.

He had his fancy job in finance.

He had his expensive suits and a nice car.

“Not for long.” She said to herself with a grin.

The homemade margherita in her hand sloshed in her glass, partially spilling to the floor, as she fought her way out from under her blanket and off of the sofa. Her head spun as she stood on her feet and staggered her way towards the bedroom, gulping down the last of the booze in her glass down her throat.

The booze had clearly gone to her head. Either that or she just no longer gave a shit about anything. She had to get some kind of vengeance from the situation. Tom had already taken his basic necessities and had yet to collect the rest of his things.

Another mistake to add to the list.

She pulled the first hanger out from the wardrobe and carried it over to her bed, dropping it onto the crumpled sheets. It was his favourite, navy blue and pinstriped, the perfect place to start. She dashed out to the kitchen, pulling one of the drawers open and grabbing the pair of scissors that were sitting innocently amongst the other utensils. Moving back into the bedroom, cold metal in her hand, she picked up the hanger once more and looked over the material.

Anger overtook her before the memories could.

Snip, Snip, Snip.

Each piece of heavy material thumped to the floor with each cut of the blades. A smile made its way across her face.

And that’s how it went. Suit after suit, shirt after shirt until it all lay in piles at her feet and she fell into a dark black abyss.

“Jesus Christ!”

The voice of her sister jumped her back to reality. Her head raised up from her face-down, sprawled, position on the bed. Her blurring eyes took in the sight of her sister in the doorway, hand on her cheeks in exclamation. She must have fallen asleep.

“Kim-.” She began to speak.

“Have you been drinking?” Kim asked, stepping further forward into the room, her Gucci shoes kicking aside her strewn cocktail glass.

She wiped the drool from her mouth as she looked around, it was growing dark outside. Evening. It had been noon the last she remembered. God, she was a mess. She wiped her eyes and sat up, her mouth as dry as sandpaper.

“It’s five in the afternoon, I came to get you for dinner.” Kim explained.

Shit.

Dinner.

More like a serving of pity and disdain.

Her mother had a habit of planning dinners at the worst of times. It was only a chance to tear her down another peg. Her mother never took the hint and you never told Florence Adkins no.

She pulled herself up from the bed and into the adjoining bathroom with a sigh. Hunching over the sink and beginning to brush her teeth and make herself look somewhat human. Her sister moved around her bedroom, tidying up the bomb site she had created over the past week.

After a quick shower, a change of clothes and a face of makeup she was ready to go. She always had a funny knack for pulling herself together despite the circumstances. An ability to hide it all away and show the world her brave face. No one needed to see her emotional hurricane.

She was pulling on her heels and shrugging on her coat as Kim walked out the front door. They’d barely spoken. Her hair perfectly styled, and clothes perfectly pressed as usual. She stopped in the doorway and turned to face her with a pitiful look on her face.

Just what I need, she thought to herself.

“Don’t think we aren’t going to talk about those suits, Jade.” She said before turning and walking to the car.

Bollocks.