Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Letting myself in, I throw my keys on the empty wooden cabinet and wander into the kitchen, sipping my coffee as I go. The middle shelf of the fridge is stacked with bottles of water, and I grab one, taking the small velvet pouch from my handbag and lowering to one of the two chairs at the small table. Unzipping it, I tip out the box and pop a pill out of the foil, placing it on my tongue and swallowing it with some water. The pain that courses through me as the small tablet works its way into my system is as strong now as it was the day I started taking these pills. So I pop a few painkillers too, dragging my laptop close and scanning my emails. Sixty-two. I delete eight. Only fifty-four to work through. It’ll keep me busy for the rest of the day and part of my Sunday.
Chugging down the rest of my water, I get up and toss the bottle in the recycling bin, my muscles screaming perfectly as I head for the shower. I strip down, avoid the mirror, and step in, my face pointed up at the spray.
I see him the moment I close my eyes. Feel his breath on my face as his lips came close before we retreated. I promised myself I wouldn’t have mindless sex with random men again, and yet there’s something about Dec that doesn’t feel random. And it definitely isn’t mindless because he’s in my head again. “Fuck.” I slap a palm into the tile and drop my head. Goddamn it for being the weekend.
December 3rd
I’m down to five emails. It’s not enough when I have endless hours to kill. So I save them for later, pushing my laptop off my lap and gazing around the lounge. A sofa. A coffee table. A TV I rarely watch. Endless boxes stacked in every corner. I get up and wander over to a pile, gingerly pulling the flap of one open, wondering if today will be the day I finally brave facing the contents. My heart begins to race, and my soul’s invaded by the long-lost sound of laughter from my past. Smiles I won’t see again. This box, like every other one it’s stacked on, and every other unpacked box in this apartment, is like Pandora’s box. Many boxes that should never be opened. I’m stable enough to know I’m existing in dark places. Stumbling through this life aimlessly, my goal simply to make it through each day alive. These boxes might end me.
I quickly snap it shut again. I can’t face it. Will never be able to face the boxes.
A chime sounds as I step back, pulling my attention over my shoulder to the couch where my phone is sitting on the arm. A text. My messenger inbox feels like Pandora’s box too. I shake my head and walk over with purpose I don’t feel, snatching it up and slamming my thumb on the screen to open the message. My heart drops into my stomach as I read the words, and then the anger rises.
My solicitor still hasn’t received the papers. Come on, Camryn. I know you’re busy, but it’s just a signature. Sign the papers and get your PA to post them so we can proceed.
I toss my phone on the couch, untold pain hitting me in the gut, forcing me to fold to the floor and curl up into a ball. But I don’t cry. The tears don’t come anymore. I experience every telltale sign of pain and loss—the ball in my throat, the tightening of my chest, the wobble of my lip from time to time—but never tears. My eyes have dried up. Empty. No more tears to give. I’m hollow. A broken, empty vessel of a woman who once smiled and celebrated life with a partner. Those happy times feel like eons ago.
I clench my eyes closed and ball my fists, wishing the day away so I can get on with my working week. “Fuck you,” I yell at my phone, slamming my fist into the floor. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” I stand abruptly and march into the kitchen, swinging open cupboard door after cupboard door, searching for something that’ll numb this relentless agony.
Empty.
They’re all empty.
“Goddamn it!” I slam the last door shut with such force, it jumps off its hinges and hits the floor, narrowly missing the bridge of my foot. It clatters around until it settles. “Fuck,” I breathe, dropping to a chair. I wedge my elbows on the table and rest my head in my hands, my fingers clawing my dark hair, pulling at my scalp.
Breathe.
Half hour later, I’m still taking in controlled breaths, still staring at the tabletop, my head hanging. I stand, holding the edge of the table, and take a few moments before reattaching the door and going to my bedroom, pulling my hair into a ponytail on my way. I tug on some baggy jeans, thick socks, a roll-neck jumper, and slip my feet into my Merry People boots—oh, the irony—wrapping a scarf around my neck and swinging my Dry Robe coat on.