Crumbling Cakes

Part XXXVI (36) *POV Bonus*

I've been bed-rested. Benched. Sidelined. Placed in the penalty box.

Sebastian practically barred my door this morning. Telling me my only bakery duty was to park my ass on the couch and stay there. My cheek wasn't as swollen anymore, the non-stop icing finally reduced its size. But the cut was still noticeable and the bruise was worse.

I stared at myself in the mirror, leaning in close to examine the damage. I caught my own eye and huffed. "Dalia Romanov, you tragic, downtrodden mess." Even when I didn't stare directly at them and pulled away, it was hard to miss.

Two deep purple florets stemming out into impressive blues and putrid greens. The look completed with the faint imprint of a BR. Her rings had left me marked. She had quite literally branded me. Like a cow. I didn't know if it made me want to laugh or cry.

You couldn't overlook this mess no matter how much concealer I tried to blot around the laceration. Feck. Ronaldo had been right to bench my ass. Fortunately, my head didn't feel any different from before yesterday's showdown. At least in that, I was lucky.

Slouching on the couch and flipping through the channels absentmindedly I cursed Bathilda for the millionth time. This was why I needed to leave, right? I mean this was what I was trying to tell Sweets all those weeks ago and urged him to understand last night. That she would become more persistent. That it would escalate.

The only solution to leave before she hurt him too. I was right; when it came to her I was always right.

But...

Deep within my mushy brain matter, a voice was screaming profanities and calling bullshit. Each day the shrill outrage reaching shallow depths, getting more vocal. Stronger.

I was tired of running and hiding. Ronaldo's plant of facing the same outcome here wouldn't let me go.

The same argument ran through my head. Over and over again the words went, burning a path so deep until I couldn't find my way anywhere else but somewhere I've long stopped wanting to go.

Go or stay. Go or stay.

Questions gained momentum as the pendulum swung between my two options.

What would it take to get rid of Bathilda? If I could just ensure she stayed away, then I'd never have to leave. That seemed logical enough. The real problem was that Bathilda had only one thing in mind and I needed to convince her otherwise.

I tapped a rhythm against the coffee table, unaware how I ended up practically slouched over it. Elbows digging into my thighs as the screen flickered blindly before me. 

The only way to keep Bathilda at bay is to grab her right where it hurts. Grab and never let go. And what did she care about the most?

Yellow was always her favorite color.

A single string of words that held all the promise in the world. I shot up, grabbing my keys and rushing out the door. If I didn't think about it, I couldn't consider what I was doing.

For once I just needed to do and not plan.

***

I huffed into my hands, finding little shelter under the torn awning of the candle shop behind me.

My eyes never strayed from the entrance to The Yellow Canary.

Here lies all she's loved. The perfect target to even the score.

On my impulsive field trip down F'dville, I ran through a few possibilities. More questions but I wasn't going to be picky. What would bring Bathilda down to her knees, long enough to leave me alone? What would Sweets do?