of diamonds and dry martinis [hs]

Chapter Eight

She was lost; stuck as she always was in between reality and a dreamy haze.

The waiter came by the group standing in the opera house lobby, collecting empty glasses and taking down new drink orders. As the waiter came to her, Roger answered the question she clearly didn't hear.

"She'll take another," he said before sending the waiter a pearly white smile, accompanied by a crisp twenty-dollar bill. The men around her fell back into conversation with one another as Roger snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her to his side like a toy.

She hardly noticed.

It had been weeks since she returned home from Miami. The days were long, but the nights were longer. Laying in bed beside Roger, she hardly slept. Staying home alone while he was at work, she was miserable. One of the days, he told her she could attend pilates; she skipped out on the class without a second thought.

Every temptation to leave the house for help or to call someone was there, but his words burned into the back of her mind like a searing iron:

"I'll make sure his body's floating deep in the Atlantic."

On top of all this was what Roger supposedly knew about Harry that she didn't. She tried so hard to wrap her brain around all of it, but only drove herself mad in the end. At one point, she somehow convinced herself Roger had been right. Harry didn't tell her because he didn't care about her; he couldn't trust someone like her because she meant nothing to him.

That's when she decided to stop thinking about it entirely. Falling back into her old ways; the pills, the alcohol, the empty shell of a human being she had allowed herself to become.

"I heard his house is back on the market," one of the older men's words shook her from her trance back into reality. She looked up subtly as to not let Roger on.

"It feels like he was only here a bit," one of the others said. She felt Roger's grip tighten on her waist through the white dress she wore.

"He seems like the jet-set kind of guy," Roger said. His tone made her sick; so faked and rotten. "Always on the run."

"Definitely," said one of the men. "Remember those days?"

As the conversation moved on, so did her line of consciousness. The heavy diamond around her neck made her want to choke, straining against her delicate skin so violently. As the waiter came by with another round of cocktails, her stomach churned vigorously. She thought it would pass, but the feeling was unrelenting.

"Roger," she said quietly as she slowly pulled away from his side. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Are you serious?" He asked with furrowed brows as he looked her over. The waiter handed him both of their cocktails as she pulled fully away from him.

"Go to the bathroom," he said, watching her carefully as she nodded. "Don't be long; the doors are about to open."

She heeded his words and took off in a fast walk towards the bathroom. Holding her stomach lightly as she pushed the door open, she trodded into the closest stall and let her chained Saint Laurent clutch fall to the tiled floor. Her arms draped over the toilet before she let it all out into the bowl. The acid burned her throat, making her eyes water beyond repair. As she sat still a moment, staring at the contents she had just released, she heard the bathroom door open and shut promptly, making her cringe at the thought of someone hearing her.

She felt hot tears begin to sting at the corner of her eyes; everything was, once again, crashing around her, with absolutely no safety in sight. Every piece of jewelry that once made her feel beautiful, the dollar signs that could give her anything she wanted, the parties that numbed her demons; all brought to light as a facade she could no longer uphold. She was forced to stare into the eyes of the same demons that haunted her childhood, watching carefully as her light was torn to shreds.