UNRAVEL
Samantha Romero
Copyright © 2013 Samantha Romero
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www.samantharomeroauthor.blogspot.com
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This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, events, brands and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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First Edition: September 2013
1
I wrung out my dripping, knotty hair, listening to the plink plink sounds of the water land on the cracked tiles beneath my feet. I was fuming—bubbling with red anger. “I’ll give you a fight,” I growled as I kicked off my shoes and slammed the door behind me, running down the stairs as fast as I could.
“Daniel!!” I screamed as I stormed out onto the wet pavement, my knuckles turning white from clenching.
He turned around and smiled. “Darlin’! I was wondering how much longer you would leave me out here waiting. You look… angry.”
I raised my eyebrows and blustered towards him, shouting, “Oh I do, do I? How smart of you to bloody notice.”
“Calm down, darlin’,” he said in a hushed tone. “You’ll catch a chill—here take my umbrella, it’s pouring. We should get you inside.”
“Are you insane?” I screamed, pushing his umbrella away from me as the rain streamed down my face. A rumble of thunder shook the skies above us.
Thinking back, it must have looked pretty dramatic. I wonder if anyone filmed it? All they would have needed to do was add thick smoke flaring from my nostrils, and put some upbeat remix behind my verbal diarrhea, and I’d be the next YouTube sensation.
“When did you give that interview?” I demanded.
His eyes dropped to the ground. “Oh, so you saw it.”
I stood inches away from him, screaming my lungs out as I glared furiously into his deep, blue eyes. “Of course, I freaking saw it! You were on the front page of the bloody paper, proclaiming your love for your fucking wife.”
He put his hand on my shoulder, trying to pacify me. “Come on, let’s get you inside. People are starting to stare.”
“People? PEOPLE?” I screamed. “You’ve never worried about people before. Why worry about them now, Daniel? What’s changed?”
I turned away, stomping back to the bottom of the stairs. When I reached them, I turned around and shrieked. “When did you give that interview? Tell me when?”
He looked at the ground as the rain continued to fall in sheets around us. “It’s not important, Siena—it doesn’t even matter.”
“WHEN?” I yelled.
“Friday.”
I leaned forward whispering, “What?”
“Um—Friday.”
I ran forward, gritting my teeth. My blood felt like it was literally bubbling in my chest as it rushed to my head. I thought I might explode into a thousand pieces and be scattered in the rain like a broken jigsaw puzzle. “You SCREWED me on Saturday.” I shook my fist at him. “SATURDAY! The very next damn day!”
“Siena,” he said in a dulcet tone, “darlin’, please calm down.” He rested his hand on my shoulder.
“Get your hand off me, you son of a bitch!” I reached up and slapped his face as hard as I could. That beautiful, stubble-dusted face of his. He was the first person—soul—that I had ever slapped or done anything violent against. Anger can give one such passion, courage, insanity.
WHACK.
“Ouch!” he said with a chuckle, rubbing his dark stubble as a red mark bloomed beneath his hand. “God, Siena, is it wrong for me to be fully turned on right now? You are so sexy when you’re mad and soaking wet. Say you’ll come back with me to the ‘otel.”
“FUCK OFF!” I roared, running up the stairs and slamming the door behind me.
Stripping my sodden wet t-shirt off in fury and trying the best I could to peel off my soaked jeans, I stomped into the bathroom, pulled the rusty, glass door open, turned on the shower, and stepped in.
As the warm water trickled down my naked body, I lifted my face, letting the warmth sprinkle across it and roll down my cheekbones. I could feel the anger washing away down the drain along with the soapy, pink suds I lathered over my body.
Then the anger was replaced with a new emotion: Sadness.
Red turned to blue—pools of dark blue, and I started to cry as the water continued to fall on my face. I hung my head, staring down at my lilac-painted toes. The water slowly dripped off the ends of my curls and the tears increased. I couldn’t stop crying; my whole body was shaking with sadness. I felt such an emptiness in my chest, that I grasped my breast in devastation, desperately trying to save my heart from the pain.
God what a diva, I thought. I half expected a full orchestra to be sitting in the bathroom by the time I got out of the shower, ready to play some massive aria as I slowly died on the tiles.
I wonder what time it is? I had been sitting at the bottom of the shower, hugging my knees as the water gently fell on my back, for what must have been over an hour.
Isn’t it funny how one sad thought can lead to so many others, and then you find yourself stuck at the bottom of a dark rabbit hole, wondering if anyone will ever notice you and pull you back out to the light.
I had been sad for so many reasons, most of them mainly to do with my own stupid insecurities. Clearly, I was still majorly hurting over my broken childhood, even though on most days, I shoved those feelings right to the back of my heart and managed to not even think about them or my father. I guess part of the yelling at Daniel had been me really wanting to yell at my father for all the crap he had put me through. Of course, I know that he hadn’t done anything to hurt me on purpose—it’s just that he hadn’t thought about me at all. He had only thought of himself and all the women he could—and did—seduce. Going through what Daniel had just done had taken me back to those exact, hollow feelings I had when I was a child—regurgitated them violently, like a spewing cat.
I was six years old the day my father decided to divorce my mother and, ultimately, “us.” He wasn’t even man enough to front up and tell her to her face. Instead there had been a knock at the door. I remember skipping down the long, wooden hallway gleefully, and then struggling to open, what seemed back then, to be such a giant, heavy object. I thought the strange woman standing on the doorstep was from the police, and in my huge fantasy-filled mind, I imagined I must have done something wrong. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I threw myself on the couch in despair, hearing my mother explain to me that she had just been served divorce papers. I realized in those exact seconds that any fairytale I had hoped for was well and truly gone.
Growing up, I tried desperately to be “good” around them. Always smiling, behaving—hoping that he would give up all his affairs and countless other women and realize that what he had at home was wonderful and special. But he didn’t. My mother once asked him if he would ever do things differently, considering how they had panned out.
He smiled, “No. I’ve had a great life.” How thrilling for him. I wish I could have said the same about my childhood.
2
Day after day passed, and the entire time it felt like it was raining. Of course, it wasn’t outs
ide—each day the sun would still rise, playfully poking its head out from behind the clouds and shining across my bubble-covered hands as I washed up. But in my mind and heart, it was raining, pouring. The whole world had turned to blue in my eyes and the rose-tinted glasses I wore up until the age of six were now well and truly stomped on and broken.
I opened the door. God I wish you would just stop. Stop all this. Another long stemmed red rose rested on the doormat. He had sent one every single day since I screamed at him in the rain. I wonder if this will send him broke? I thought. Haha—if only.
Instead, day after day, the roses came.
I sighed, shaking my head as I picked up the latest one and brought it inside. Time for my daily rose ceremony, I thought. It consisted of getting out the sharpest pair of scissors from the horribly messy drawer in the kitchenette, and then CHOP—off with your head!—as I watched it tumble into the rubbish bin. Then, plop into the water with all the other leafy, green rose stems. I had seen it once in a movie when Morticia from the Addams Family had done the same thing to her roses, and at the time I thought it was super creepy. However, now—now I thought it was just plain brilliant. I proudly stood back admiring the green, leafy stems filling the big glass vase as it rested on the kitchen bench. “Until tomorrow,” I whispered.
I hadn’t been out for a couple of months. I just didn’t want to go anywhere. Well, when I mean out, I mean anywhere fun or nice. Instead I had just upped my hours at the clothing store and told Jess that I had way too much on to catch up each Sunday. Of course, she didn’t buy it and had been phoning me consistently, but I just couldn’t do it; I wanted to be by myself as much as possible.
As I threw the scissors back into the drawer, someone started causing a ruckus outside my door. “Get your sorry ass out here, missy!”
I groaned. I knew it was Jess banging the door down—she had such a shrill voice. I was surprised half the neighbors didn’t open their doors expecting that she wanted to see them.
I walked up to the door and hesitated, then tried putting on my most “normal” voice. “Just stepping into the shower, sweetie! Don’t think I can catch up right now.”
“Don’t give me such utter crap! I’m worried about you! What the hell are you playing at, Siena? Open the door or I’ll…”
I rolled my eyes, opening the door slowly. “Or you’ll what? Huff and puff and blow the door down? God you’re such a drama, Jess.”
“Whoa—sweetie, you look awful!!” she said, dropping her bottom lip as she looked at me with pity. “What have you done to yourself? Talk about sweat central.”
I sighed, “I just can’t be bothered at the moment.”
“To wash your face? Wear nice clothes? Have some respect?” She giggled, “You look like a… cave person!”
I smiled sarcastically, replying, “Thanks, Jess, you always know exactly what to say. How lovely of you to stop by with such supportive and helpful words.”
I stood facing Jess in an oversized, red t-shirt. My current look also came with baggy, black sweat pants, complete with a large, not-meant-to-be-there hole, revealing my ugly, knobby knee. My hair was scraped back tightly, and yet somehow it still managed to frizz up from my scalp.
“When was the last time you went out?” she asked, looking greatly concerned.
“I go out every day.”
She pointed her long, manicured finger at me and wiggled it. “Not looking like that, you don’t.”
“I put on my uniform, go to the clothing store, and then come home—I’ve upped my hours, so I’m working a lot more at the moment.”
She flopped down on the couch, still looking at me with utter disapproval. “And then what? You just come home and put on the ugliest, baggy clothes you can find and stare out the window for the rest of the night?”
I smirked as a tiny laugh escaped. “Yeah, pretty much.”
She got off the couch and hugged me, bear-like “What the hell happened to you? Tell me everything! It must be over a guy—it has to be. Do you want me to get some ice-cream?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not Bridget Jones.”
“Well,” she smiled, as she poked me in the ribs, “I bought ice-cream anyway, so find me a spoon and spill your tiny guts!”
She walked into the kitchenette and spotted the vase of leafy steams.
“Holy crap! What is that?” She said, pointing her finger at the vase repeatedly like a kid visiting the zoo for the first time.
“Art?” I shrugged.
“Where are their heads?” she asked, chewing her bottom lip nervously.
I smiled, putting my hands in my pockets. “I chopped them off!”
She stared at the vase, poking the leafy stems “Siena, there must be like fifty in here.”
I nodded, “Yeah, probably, I’ve lost count. Here’s your spoon,” I said casually as I walked out of the kitchenette and sunk onto the couch, looking up at her.
“You concern me, Siena. Whatever this is…” she said, staring at the vase, “is freaky.”
I smiled widely. “I find it therapeutic!”
She rolled her eyes as she shimmied up beside me on the couch, spoon in one hand. “Now spill!”
I looked down at the floor hoping to avoid her questions. “It’s not Sunday, though.”
“Don’t go getting all analytical on me now. Honestly, I’m worried about you—you look like shit. We haven’t seen each other for way over a month and you’re cutting off rose heads and displaying the stalks! Next you’ll be into taxidermy—remind me to keep my cat far away from you!”
I leaned forward, rubbing my face and resting it in my hands. “I’m going to tell you a really short version, coz I don’t want to go into it.”
She nodded, putting another spoonful of chocolate ice cream into her mouth.
“I met a man some time back. We flirted a lot…”
She shot me an amused look as she laughed, “That’s the norm for you, you’re the flirt queen.”
I made a face back at her. “And anyway, as I was saying, he’s married, we had sex, he made me orgasm all over his hotel room, and that’s that. End of story.”
Her eyes widened as she stuck her spoon into the middle of the ice cream tub, and leaned forward.
“You bonked a married man?”
I curled up, resting my head on my knees, as I looked up at her widening eyes. “Yup.”
She looked confused. “But that’s like your thing—that you’re so ever against doing.”
I sighed. “Yep.”
She moistened her lips as she took another bite of the ice cream. “Wow, he must have been something, then.”
“He told me he wasn’t married.”
She laughed, as she scooped up another spoonful of chocolate. “And you believed him?”
I got up from the couch and walked over to the window. “Can we not talk about this?”
“I can’t believe you shagged a married man and didn’t tell me. How old is he?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Thirty-three?” she persisted.
“He’s in his forties.”
She dropped her spoon on the tiles, throwing her arms high in the air as she waved them around playfully. “Miss Siena got laid by an older, married man. Someone send out a tweet!” She got out her iPhone in a hurry and started to scroll through it.
I laughed, motioning with my hands for her to settle down. “Jess, control yourself. Let’s not. Ok?”
She turned around and looked at the vase. “So those are from him?”
I sighed in frustration, “Of course they are from him. He has been sending one every damn day.”
She pouted, twisting her straight blonde hair around her finger. “No guy has ever done that for me, Siena—he must really like you.”
I shook my head. “Nah. He’s infatuated that’s all. Infatuated by the whole singing thing—I think he thinks I just waltz around in ball dresses, singing every day. He doesn’t have a clue. He doesn’t know anything about
me really, just that I sing.”
“Why are you so mad at him?”
I put my hands on my hips in frustration at her constant questions. “Coz he lied to me ok? He’s married. He has children. I’m mad at him, and I’m mad at myself for getting swept away by his charm. My instinct knew that he was a player—he was just so obvious. But I was flattered and gave into him. I can’t believe that I’m now no better than all my father’s women. I never wanted to be part of breaking up someone else’s –.”
She cut me off mid-sentence. “Well that’s that, then!” She stood up quickly, adjusting her short skirt.
Unravel Page 1
