Broken

Cal Effin Scott

April 26th, 2011

Here he comes. My very own Prince Fucking Charming, Cal Scott. He walks in, and his eyes quickly skim the packed suitcase in my hand and briefly rest on my face. He lets out an exasperated sigh, tosses his keys on the table, and takes off his coat. His eyes fall on the empty bottle of wine I finished today. A smirk spreads across his face before he passes me, heading into the living room.

I expected his lack of response, but it hurts all the same. I'm pretty sure he regards me more as his personal high-class escort than his wife.

I clutch my suitcase, full of the very few things that are mine. He can keep the cars, the money, and the penthouse—the things he believes should comfort me in my loneliness. All the material things in the world can't make up for the growing disconnect between us. The four-carat yellow diamond on my finger is a beautiful but painful reminder of the vows he broke.

I look at him now, slouched on the couch with a self-assured cocky grin plastered on his face, the same one he wore the day I met him. I walk into the living room. He's watching a basketball game on his obnoxiously big television screen as if he hasn't a care in the world.

He glances back at me, still not speaking, and my anger boils over. If I were a man, I would kick his ass! I pull the calendar marked with the very few days he's been home from my bag and force it into his lap.

"Don't start this shit, Lauren. I texted you," he says with obvious exasperation.

My questions come rapid fire as I walk between him and the television, waving my suitcase in his direction and trying my best to obstruct his view. "You texted me? That makes it okay? Do you see my bags at the door and the one I'm holding? Do you not get it? I'm leaving, Cal. Fuck you and your texts!"

He shifts his position on the couch and gestures to the empty wine bottle I forgot to discard. "I'm not talking to you while you're drunk," he says dismissively.

"Yes, you are!" I insist, moving closer to him.

"Weren't you leaving?" he asks sarcastically. His face is stern while his eyes smile.

He's not taking me seriously, so I lean down and growl in his face. "You are such an asshole!"

He kisses me—right on the lips—and laughs. He fucking laughs! I try to slap him, but he's quick, and my fingertips barely graze his face.

"I hate you!" I roar and storm away from him. I start to take off my wedding ring. I want to throw it at him, but then I realize I like my ring. It's fucking gorgeous. So I throw the stereo remote at his head instead before I march to the door.

He's off the couch, coming after me, but I keep walking. He grabs my arm, turns me to face him, and takes my suitcase.

"I'm done. Leave me alone!" I yell, struggling to break free from his iron grasp. Suddenly, I'm picked up and swung over his shoulder. "Let me go! Stop it!"

But he doesn't listen. I'm failing miserably in my attempts to escape.

"No more bottles of wine for you, Mrs. Scott," he utters, unfazed by my protests.

"Let me go!" I scream again, punching him in the back as he carries me up the stairs and into our bedroom, where he drops me unceremoniously on the bed.

"Sleep this off," he says simply.

Who the hell does he think he is? I rush toward the door, but he quickly slips out and shuts the door. I get to the door a split second later and yank on it. It's locked. The bastard has locked me in.