I spit on the mirror.
The glob of saliva hits my reflection square in the eye and drips down, distorting my features. Making me look exactly as monstrous as I feel.
Still not enough.
My fist connects with the glass before I consciously decide to throw the punch. The impact shudders up my arm. Spider-web cracks radiate from the point of contact. My knuckles scream.
Not enough.
I hit it again. Harder. The mirror shatters this time, shards exploding outward, some clattering into the sink, others embedding themselves in my hand.
Blood wells up immediately. Dark red against my skin. Dripping onto the white marble.
I stare at it.
Good.
Pain I understand. Pain makes sense. It's clean and simple and honest—unlike everything else about the last month of my life.
I watch the blood pool in my palm. Let it overflow and splatter onto the floor.
Kristen spent years with a man who controlled every aspect of her existence. Who took out loans in her name. Who made her believe she was worthless and ugly and incapable of surviving without him.
She escaped that. She was healing from that.
And I pulled the same shit.
Different packaging. Same poison.
But I did it because I love her.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it, and I actually laugh. A harsh, broken sound that echoes off the tile.
Love.
That's what Jack probably told himself too. Every time he criticized her body. Every time he made her feel small. Every time he stole her money and her choices and her sense of self.
He probably thought he was doing it out of love.
I lean against the sink, glass crunching under my palms. The pain is distant now. Background noise.
Kristen was right.
She did hate me from the beginning. I forced her to stay here. The job offer after her firing. The debt revelation. The constant security. Every choice I made backed her further into a corner until staying with me seemed like her only option.
She thought she wanted me because I made her think that.
And now she knows.
Well done, asshole.
Well fucking done.
I straighten up, glass grinding beneath my feet. The blood on my hand has started to clot, dark and sticky. I'll need stitches. Or at least butterfly bandages. Some of these cuts are deep.
But I don't move toward the first aid kit.
Instead, I look at the ruined mirror.
