It doesn't. The words sit there, tidy and small and meaningless. Too clean for the raw ache spreading under my ribs. I grab a fresh tube, uncap it with my teeth, and slash across the message in furious zigzags. Red smears over red, turning the letters into jagged smears, then into nothing recognizable. I keep going until the mirror is a chaotic blur of color, and streaks running downward like blood that never quite falls.
My chest heaves. The lipstick tube slips from my fingers and clatters to the vanity top. I stare at the mess I made, breathing hard, then lift my fist and slam it into the center of the glass.
The crack sounds sharp, almost satisfying. A spiderweb of fractures radiates outward from my knuckles. Pain blooms hot and immediate across my hand, but I barely register it. The important part is the break on the glass. It splinters perfectly into pieces that no longer reflect me cleanly.
Shards stay in place for a second before one drops, hitting the wood floor with a brittle ping.
I sink to my knees among the fragments. My shoulders shake first, then the rest of me follows. Tears come fast and ugly, spilling down my cheeks, dripping onto the carpet. Humiliation burns hotter than the cut on my hand.
I hate how much I care. It's one new assistant, one calm boundary from Red, that's reduced me to crying on the floor of my own bedroom because he reminded me his world has rules I'm not allowed to touch.
Anger overpowers my shame. I get up, grab my pincushion, and return to the vanity. I sit down and pick up a pin.
Don't do it.
You're going too far.
I'll feel better.
Red will be mad.
Don't show him.
"Ah!" I shriek and stab the pin in the broken lipstick. Then I take several more, doing the same thing, but it doesn't help.
So I take a safety pin, lift my dress, and close my eyes. I push it into my thigh, and a sob gets caught in my throat. Tears fall on my hand, but I pick up another pin and push it next to the other one, repeating it until there are a dozen pins in my thigh, and the sharp pain dulls to throbs.
Why can't I stop doing this?
I stare at the pins stuck in my thigh and wail, hating myself and how I can't control my own actions. I wipe my face with the back of my wrist, smearing mascara and lipstick across my skin.
My hand throbs now, a steady pulse, blood welling in a thin line across two knuckles. Hiccups replace my sobs. I stare at the jagged cutuntil the red bead swells and drops onto my dress, staining the green fabric darker.
It takes a long time until my breath evens. The chaos inside me doesn't disappear; it condenses, sharpening into something clearer and colder.
Red set the rules. His professional life stays separate. His decisions stay his. Fine. He drew the line.
But why didn't he tell me about her?
I stand slowly, careful of the glass, and walk to the bathroom. Cold water stings when I rinse my hand under the tap. The cut isn't deep. It's shallow enough to stop bleeding with pressure. I wrap it in gauze anyway, tight enough to remind me it's there. I grit my teeth and pull the pins out of my thigh and step into the shower, keeping my hand away from the water.
He wants boundaries. He wants control.
I turn off the water, dry myself off, and return to the bedroom. The shattered mirror catches the afternoon light, throwing fractured pieces of me across the walls.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out my phone.
If he wants walls between us, I'll show him what happens when those walls vanish.
We're not supposed to text, but I don't care anymore. I'm tired of hiding anyway.
Me: I need space.
My finger trembles when I press send. The message delivers. Read receipt pops up almost immediately.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
I turn the phone face down on the nightstand without waiting for his reply.
