“I fell off my bike this morning.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I don’t like it. With most people I have to pretend that I feel something, that I care about what happens to them, but not with Berkleigh. It’s weird getting this sudden feeling of anger that boils in my stomach and makes my heart feel like it’s racing a horse. Can’t say that I like it, but I’m used to it, I think.
“Did you go down the hill? I told you not to go down the hill, Berkleigh! You’re not good with your balance yet.” I hate that she’s so stubborn, always doing the opposite of what I tell her.
“I do too have balance!” Her bottom lip starts trembling and her eyes get all watery, which means she’s about to cry and I can’t deal with that. It’s too much. Seeing Berkleigh upset makes me insanely angry, which means I want to punch myself in the face for hurting her feelings.
When the first tear breaks free and jumps from her lid to her cheek, I don’t think, I just act. I take two steps forward andwrap my arms around her shoulders, hugging her tight until she stops.
If anyone else tried to touch me, I would step away, maybe even get violent, but Sweet Beedoesn'tdeserve my weirdness. Besides, her touch doesn’t make me feel itchy and uncomfortable. Instead, it brings calmness to the chaos inside my head.
“I’m sorry, Sweet Bee. I just worry about you.” Last month, I sneaked over while they were out, and nailed a piece of plywood to her front porch steps. I mean, she didn’t hurt herself but she could have. The next morning, her dad fixed them properly. Nobody knows it was me but I’m pretty sure her dad has a hunch.
“I know. I’ll listen next time. I promise.”
We give each other a tight squeeze before breaking apart. We need to run if we’re going to make it to school on time. And if we don’t, the teachers will call my dad and he’ll beat the shit out of me.
That also makes Sweet Bee cry so I try to avoid it at all costs.
The woman is infuriating. I can’t fucking deal with her antics. For someone who’s spent the better part of her life in some form of schooling, she must have been absent when they lectured on common sense.
Noise at the side of my house alerts me that she has not, in fact, gone back to her own place. When I lift the blade of the shades at the window facing her house, I realize she’s trying to unlock my trash cans. It’s useless, but I commend her efforts.When she gives up and starts puking on top of it, my emotions take a sharp turn from impressed to livid.
I don’t call her out on it because I don’t see the point. Best case scenario, she’d flip me off while emptying her guts.
Fucking perfect.
The woman needs to be disciplined. She needs to be taught that there are rules to life, to society. Rules and order, it’s what makes the world go round, which explains why her life is a fucking mess on all fronts. Maybe tying her up and spanking her ass until she starts making rational decisions is all she needs. And a good fucking. The kind that’s bone deep and life altering.
Between the random men she fucks when her loneliness gets the better of her and the fact her life revolves around her work, I’m not the least bit surprised by the scene outside my window.
A small, satisfied grin lifts the corners of my mouth when I remember that she’s in this predicament because of me.
No, that’s not right. She’s alone and lonely—not the same thing—because she deserves it. Because she put this on herself. That’s what happens to people who stick their noses in other people’s business without considering the consequences.
Hello, Berkleigh. With Love, Karma.
That’s me. I’m the motherfucking Karma.
Just as she’s about to step away from the bin, she stops, heaves, then gives me an encore of her drink choices for the night. From the color spewing from her mouth, I’m confident my trashcan will smell like sour tequila.
Despite my deep-rooted hatred for her, the anger rising like her bile can’t be helped. I’ve always been a sucker when it comes to her being hurt. It straight up pisses me off but I ignore it because it’s purely a physical reaction from past trauma. It cost me over a grand in shrink bills to figure that out.
It doesn’t take a genius to know some douchebag at the club thought he could manhandle her. She may lack common sensebut she’s got spirit and fight in spades, which means the asshole got frisky and the most likely scenario is that she tried to shut it down.
Insecure men don’t like rejection.
That motherfucker, whoever he is, caused her pants to be ripped, her lip to look like she’d been mauled by a tiger, and is that a mark on her cheek? Did that fucker slap her?
I know, I know. Why should I care?
Because she's mine to torment. And to be honest, I haven’t done her any harm since high school but I love that all of my efforts have kept her isolated.
This, however, is a completely different story.
Men who hit women because they didn’t get their way don’t deserve the privilege of breathing. End of.
When she drops to a sitting position next to the bins, I debate whether or not to help her back to her house. Serves her right to spend the night out there and wake up snuggled to a family of rodents. Fuck around and find out should be tattooed on her forehead.
Although, if she falls asleep there, every move she makes will set off my flood lights and motion sensor cameras, which will, in turn, fuck with my sleep.
