A Heart Worth Breaking

Logan Chapter One

It can’t get any worse.

The stupidest saying on the face of the earth.  Because the second those words shot through my mind or out of my mouth, shit just deteriorated that much more, and I was left dumbfounded as to how I could have possibly thought that way in the first place.

Last month there was a leak in the roof.  Oh, well, I thought, it can’t get any worse.  Yeah, right.  The next day it poured and half the ceiling of my bathroom was soaked and bowed like the whole damn thing was about to cave in and crush me in the middle of my shower.  Total cost of repairs:  $660.95

Last month Jai’s dog came down with a cold.  And after the $170 I forked out to get him checked over, I thought, huh, broke as I am, things can’t get any worse.  

The dog died two days later.

I kept wondering if I was being punished somehow, for thinking I’d hit rock bottom when apparently, I hadn‘t even made it halfway to the ground.  Like the big guy upstairs was shaking his head at my naivety, laughing at my mishaps and how dire I claimed them to be.  Then, just because he could, he made everything that much harder to remind me:  It can always get worse.

Case in point:  Jai lost his job.  

That was bad enough, but then he started drinking to fill up all of the hours he would have been doing construction.  He was out with his friends more often than not.  I kept telling myself he was mourning his dog, frustrated at being laid off, and I gave him his space.  Not once did I utter that stupid phrase.  Did it help me?

The relentless stinging ache in my face and my current place of residence said no, it did not help.  The suitcase at my feet only reinforced the harsh truth that no matter how I looked at it, right now I was pretty screwed.

Not to mention pissed off, a little hungry, and a lot drenched.  The latter was only serving to deteriorate my mood that much more as I paced the bus shelter I was standing in, my arms wrapped around me for comfort more than warmth.  Despite the downpour, the temperature was still warm, the air muggy and humid.

My brain was working double time, trying to sort through everything that had happened in the last hour, and also trying to come up with some way to either repair it, or to find a solution that didn’t end with me spending the night on the streets like some homeless hooligan.

But then, it wasn’t my mistake to repair, was it?

I gingerly put my hand to my puffy cheek and winced.  It was swelling rapidly, and knowing my disastrous luck, I’d have a bruise come morning.  Which would go lovely with my split lip and the long, thin gash along my hairline. 

My left hip started vibrating, but I didn’t need to retrieve my phone to know who was calling.

“Give it a rest, Jai,” I muttered to myself, my frustration increasing tenfold when the phone stopped ringing, only to start up again.  “No way in hell I’m answering your calls.”

Not after what he did.

That he was drunk was no excuse.  That he was upset over this and that was no excuse.  That he loved me was especially no excuse.

But, lack of excuses aside, I was starting to think that maybe I should answer the phone.  Maybe I should let him come and pick me up.  Maybe I should go back home… so what?  So he could do it again?

And that last thought was like a slap in the face - well, a second slap to the face really, seeing as I’d just experienced the first at the hands of the one person who was supposed to protect me and love me unconditionally.