Into the Starry Night

Seven - Part One

It was precisely 10:45 am when I saw it.

I was scrolling through the internet, one tab open on what the duties of a maid of honor were and another one on a suitable house for me on the Island when my phone chimed.

I reached out to the bedside table where my phone that had chimed a while ago lay charging and absentmindedly unlocked it, my attention still on the sprawling mansion I was looking at on my laptop.

My blood ran cold when I finally focused on the Instagram notification.

On it was a picture of Fred and Kristin. They were on the beach and as she was laying on a beach chair in a flowery two-piece bikini he bent over to kiss her. They both sported disgustingly wide smiles.

Underneath was written A new ship has sailed! America's sweetheart Frederick Davenport and Kristin Vagas are officially an item. The couple displayed some serious PDA on a day of fun at the beach. Read more about their budding romance here.

I stared at my phone for a good ten minutes, not knowing what to do.

It wasn't even up to a week since we'd broken up our engagement. He didn't even have the decency to wait seven fucking days before he found himself another bimbo to parade around.

My anger choked up my throat and no matter how much I tried to swallow, nothing would pass the blob lodged in my throat.

Budding romance my ass. I hope the sun fires your lying white ass.

And just like ripping off the bandaid over a wound, all the old feelings of hurt and betrayal that I had struggled to bury came flooding in and I felt like hitting something. Or someone.

As if he could sense the shift in my mood, my dog nudged my hand and hopped on top of my lap. He barked and trained large, watery dark eyes up at me.

“It's not fair, you know. I don't know what I was expecting but not this. I know I sound petty but I wasn't expecting him to move on this soon. Not while I'm still . . .” I trailed off.

The truth was I didn't know what I was. Hurt, yes. Angry, definitely, but underneath all that there was another feeling that was spreading its vile tentacles, festering like an unattended sore.

It took me a while before I was able to discern what it was.

Loneliness. Pure, undiluted loneliness.

“Ugh! Fuck him,” I yelled and tossed my phone across the room. The device barely missed Kenny as she opened the door to my room, but I hardly noticed as I jumped up from my bed and began ruffling through my dresser.

“You've seen it, abi?”

I didn't answer Kenny. I found my hand wrap, pulled it out of my drawer, and began winding it around my hand.

When my left hand was completely encased by the protective black gauze I secured it and walked past Kenny, wordlessly starting on the other hand as I made my way to her unused home gym.

“Amarachi. Amarachi, come on say something. Talk to me!”

I could hear Kenny pleading as she trailed behind me but my mind was focused on the punching bag I was going to rain my anger on.

Kenny's home gym was state-of-the-art — which was surprising since I was very sure she never came down here — and it wasn't long before I found the red punching bag and positioned myself to begin the therapeutic violence.

Through my peripheral vision, I saw Kenny take a seat beside me on the bench press, her silky lilac nightgown gave off a soft sheen as it caught the fluorescent white light from the ceiling. Her hair was in colourful rollers around her head.