Bliss

twenty seven

I don't know if it's because I took him back when I knew I shouldn't, or if it's the fact that I actually saw it with my own two eyes, but this time is entirely different. I'm not angry, at least not anymore. In fact, I don't feel anything. Not disbelief, or unspeakable rage or even the guilt that festered last night. I don't even feel numb. I just am. Heartbroken, that is.

But it isn't a feeling. It's simply a state. Bleak and utterly depressing. Endless too.

Last time it split me whole and swallowed me in a seamless gulp, throwing me into the belly of the beast until I stabbed my way out and was myself again. It was all-encompassing, gut-wrenching, but it came to an end. It was also tempered by all sorts of hatred and disgust, and anger towards Spencer.

But this time, there's nothing. Just the beast's belly and the sense that I'll be trapped forever

It'll get better, things always do, but something about it feels permanent—like an unwanted tattoo in dark ink, the letters curled and fairytale-like, spelling out Spencer's name in bold strokes.

The one thing that hasn't change is Spencer's tactics. But then you can trust him to be frustratingly consistent—in cheating, lying, selfishness. The point is, he'll never change. At least not for me.

Thankfully, Henry's still MIA, and my parents have left for work, saving me from having to offer a half-truth that would, eventually, have to give way to the whole embarrassing thing.

I roll off the sofa, blanket in tow, and shuffle towards the front door, flinging it open to reveal Spencer's red-rimmed eyes. He's holding a wilting bouquet of lilies scarily similar to the ones his mum uses to decorate their vestibule. He shoves them into my hands before I can refuse them and is presumptuous enough to try and come in.

"You can stay out there," I say, my left hand tightening around the doorknob as my right clings to the blanket.

He nods glumly and takes a step back. "I'm sorry," he says once he's a reasonable distance from the house.

"I'm sure you ar—"

"I don't know why I keep doing this. These girls have nothing on you. You're the one I want, always."

"But—"

"I'll never do it again. I swear on my mother's life."

He stops, eyes wide, unblinking, and takes a step forwards.

"Are you going to let me speak now?" I ask, my hand reaching for the brass knob all over again. He nods and stumbles back onto the cobbled path, his eyes seeming to glisten with unshed tears.

"I appreciate your apology," I say, my voice devoid of any emotion. "But I wouldn't swear on your mother's life if I were you."

"It's just—"

"It's my turn to speak."

He swallows and takes another step back. It's smart on his part. The first smart thing he's done all week.

"This," I say, gesturing between us with the depressing lilies, "is never going to happen. Ever again. We're finished, Spence. I mean it this time."

"But."

I slam the door shut, opening it only to chuck the lilies at him, and then the frame shudders again from the sheer force of the blow.

Not even a minute later, there's a knock. I'm half tempted to ignore it, to return to the sofa and my mindless channel surfing, but a rhythmic tap follows soon after, and I know that it's not Spencer waiting for me on the other side.

Jess is in the same clothes from last night. Her hair is dishevelled at best, a pigeons nest at worst, and a faint bruise runs along her collar bone while another hides beneath her ear lobe. Yet, despite the state of her, she's the furthest thing from sheepish. If anything, she looks more distraught.