Violent Ends

VE | prologue

8 months after

The doorbell chimed. On her armchair, Meredith's head turns to the door. She stares, reluctant to walk over to it. She doesn't know who is outside, yet she already dreads the conversation they might have. That is, if she opens the door. Which chances are more unlikely by the second. 

It's been exactly two weeks since she's had actual human interaction, not counting the quiet exchanges with the pizza delivery man. Suffice to say, talking is almost too foreign for her tongue. She doesn't believe she's depressed. She's just too god damned lazy to go out and willingly stand under the god damned sun. 

When the doorbell rings for the second time, she finally gets off her sofa and walks over to her kitchen counter. As she pours herself a glass of warm water, she considers every possible way she has to get out of this situation. She could take the fire escape down and come back an hour later, but that might lead to bumping old friends on the street and having to catch up, or whatever it is polite people did. Or, better yet, she could just pretend she wasn't around. 

But before she could ask herself if she's been quiet enough, the person on the other side of the door says, "Mere, I know you're in there. I can hear your footsteps from out here."

She doesn't think of cursing at the stupid cheap wooden tiles, or come up with another escape plan. Her body freezes over the familiarity of that voice. 

This voice, she hasn't heard in so long, she had thought she wouldn't ever hear it again. But there it was, just a few metres away from her. 

If this happened a month ago, she wouldn't hesitate to open the door, probably hyperventilating as she did so. The butterflies would fill up her stomach, and she'd be sprinting back into the hellhole she barely crawled out from. But now the butterflies no longer fly. 

Now she stands still, her feet glued to the ground that threatens to swallow her full. Now everything about him, from his stupid Instagram posts (to which she created a new account just to spam him with hate comments for a brief period of time, until she got reported) to the sound of his raspy voice that she used to obsess over, sparks up a pit of rage within her. 

So, she weighed her options. Pros; if she opened the door, she would get to punch him square in his face. Cons; she'd actually have to look at his face to do that. But somehow, the thought of a huge black bruise on his cheek, was a good enough reason for her to turn the door knob open. 

And there he stood, still more than a head taller than her. As he towered over her, she remembers how they too were like towers. Or so she deceived herself. 

She didn't need to wait a second longer to think anything through when she makes her next move. She curled her fingers into her palm, clenched her fist then went in for the kill. 

Whoever said violence wasn't the answer, clearly never punched anyone. 

Because right there and then, she's never felt anything more satisfying than the feeling of her knuckles colliding with his wide jaw and the look on his face as he tries to register what just happened. Even the stinging pain of the post-punch was worth it. 

"What the-?" he breathed, dumbfounded. His face slowly clouds with anger, but it doesn't faze Meredith like it used to. So she just sighs in content. She used to hate it so much when he got mad at her. It would kill every fibre of her body. But those days have long passed. The Meredith then is long gone. 

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do that," she says with a huge grin on her face. 

"I think I have a small blue-black idea," he spits, grudgingly. There was something about his expression, she notices, when he got angry. The way his green eyes would darken a shade; his ears would turn red. It made him look like a 5 year old throwing a tantrum. How anyone was ever intimidated by him, puzzled her.