The Turning Point

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE- DISAPPOINTMENT

Heloyse

The thunderous roar of a motorcycle startled me awake.
Gradually, reality came like a punch in the stomach. The sour smell of vomit permeated my clothes, my skin, my hair. It was in me, everywhere. I wrinkled my nose, disgusted. The hangover enveloped me like a heavy current, crushing my bones, my flesh, my throbbing head.
I moved slowly, feeling every muscle protest. My dry throat burned as if I had swallowed sand. A weight of a thousand tons seemed to have settled in my chest.
I raised my head and stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Swollen, red, empty eyes. Disheveled hair, skin crumpled by the mark of the seat upholstery.
"Beautiful to die for", I thought, with bitter irony.
With effort, I slid into the driver's seat. My whole body ached, a deep fatigue sucking me into myself. I picked up my cell phone. Ten twenty-seven in the morning.
The sun was too bright, a sharp blade for my sensitive eyes. I opened the glove compartment blindly and pulled out my sunglasses, putting them on immediately.
The street was already awake, alive. People passed by, cars came and went. And I needed to get out of there.
A pill to relieve this damn pain. A coffee, if I could swallow anything. A bath, for God's sake, an urgent bath. Soap, lots of soap. Perfume. Anything that would make me feel less... rotten.
I let out a heavy sigh.
I waited a few moments, getting used to the new wave of discomfort before sticking the key in the ignition and starting the engine.
I had a lot to think about. A lot to do.
I said I needed to react, but getting drunk wasn't a very adult reaction.
I followed the street, still feeling the weight of the discomfort, when I saw Patsy run out of a hotel, staggering. High heels in her hands, bag hanging on her shoulder, distraught face. Clearly someone who was also hungover.
Before I could understand what was happening, a woman appeared from behind and pulled her hair brutally, knocking her down on the asphalt.
I slammed on the brakes, the sound of the tires echoing through the street. People stopped to look, but no one moved to intervene. The silence of complicity was almost deafening.
The woman, taken by fury, delivered slaps and punches against Patsy, who tried to defend herself in vain.
Why didn't anyone do anything?
I fought against the dizziness and nausea that churned my stomach and got out of the truck. My body protested, but my conscience screamed louder.
"You like going out with married men, bitch?" the woman roared between blows. "Let's see if they still want you after I smash your face!"
Patsy groaned in pain, but the aggressor didn't stop.
"Christian won't lift a finger for you! You know why? Because you were just a diversion. He just wanted to know if what they said was true. And you know what they said? That you were easy."
The fists continued to fall, relentless.
"Whore!"
She pushed her to the ground, sitting on her stomach, immobilizing her arms with her knees. She raised her fist once more, ready to deliver another blow, but I grabbed her hand before she could hit Patsy again.
"That's enough!" my voice came out firm, despite the weakness that still dominated my body.
Patsy was unrecognizable. Her lip was bleeding, the smudged makeup showed that she had been crying even before being hit.
The woman looked at me with eyes full of hatred.
"Let me go, or you'll be next."
"So be it," I held her gaze. "Will hitting me make your husband faithful to you? Will it erase the betrayal you suffered? If so, then go ahead."
She froze, her fists trembling with rage. She let out a heavy sigh and then, in a final act of spite, landed another punch on Patsy's face before getting up.
Patsy turned her face to the side, too weak to react.
The woman stared at me with teary eyes.
"Nothing can erase the pain of betrayal," her voice trembled. "Because of her and son of a bitch" — she pointed at Patsy — "I'm here, destroyed. Patsy wasn't the only one who got hit. I also burned all his clothes," she took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant. And now we're getting divorced, because I can never trust someone who destroyed my trust again."
She shook her head, as if trying to organize her thoughts.
"I understand," I murmured. "I'm sorry for you. But this child is innocent. You need to take care of yourself, you need to worry about your pregnancy. Stress can ruin everything, and I know you don't want that."
She looked at me bitterly before lowering her head.
"I can't stop feeling hate."
"No one could judge you. You have every right to feel angry. But you need to decide what's most important now."
She was silent for a few seconds, taking deep breaths, absorbing my words.
"You're right."
Her eyes scanned the people around. Her face still carried tears and bitterness, but now there was something else: exhaustion. As if, suddenly, she had no more strength to fight.
Without saying anything else, she turned and went her way, turning left on the street.
I turned my gaze back to Patsy. She was still on the ground, motionless, staring at the sky. Tears ran silently, mixing with the blood that marked her face.
She placed her hands on the asphalt, trying to get up. I bent down to help her, but she moved away abruptly.
"No!"
"Let me help."
She smiled, but it was a crooked smile, full of irony and pain. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
"No! Don't humiliate me. I don't accept pity from anyone."
"It's not pity. Anyone would do this."
"Are you sure?" she pointed at the people who were still watching us. "Do you know why no one helped me? Because I'm the slut of Clearwater. The spoiled White. The one who laughs at others, the one who sleeps with the husbands of these unloved idiots. When the betrayed, the humiliated one was me, none of these people lifted me off the ground. Why would they do it now, when I gave them reasons to be here?"
She sobbed, covering her face with her hands.
I bent down again, touching her shoulder.
"Leave me alone!" she moved away, standing up with difficulty.
"I'll take you home."
"My fingers aren't broken. My feet still work. I know how to drive very well."
She spat a mixture of saliva and blood on the ground, staring at me with contempt and something deeper: a pain she would never admit to feeling.
"Damn the hour you came to Clearwater, Heloyse."
She picked up her shoes and purse from the ground, made her walk of shame to the car, started the engine, and vanished.
The people, satisfied with the spectacle, returned to their routines.
I, on the other hand, remained there for a few seconds, absorbing everything. Feeling a terrible weight in my chest.
Christian's wife learned, that morning, what disappointment was. And she was only disappointed because she trusted him. Because he wasn't her enemy.