Story Time

Bushy-Tailed

This little fictional snippet is straight out of Story Time

You stupid bitch

That’s the last text I see, from yet another unknown number, before the tears start dripping into my hair and start to leave stains on the pink and yellow pillow case my, now throbbing, head sits upon. Although that text was one of the more tame ones I’ve received in the last 4 hours, it still digs deeper into my already festering wound. I turn my head towards my closet door and notice, for the first time, a small mark indenting the wood. I know for a fact that this mark was not there the day before. I’d get up and examine it but that would mean leaving the safety of these sheets. The only haven is right here. Under the covers with music blasting in my ears threatening to puncture my ear drums, adding another injury to my already aching mind. Out of habit I reach for my phone again without thinking of the consequences. However, my hand doesn’t feel hard plastic, only the smooth cover of the book sitting on my bed side table. I lift my head gingerly and have a half-assed look around the room. Something flashes out of the corner of my eye and I see a fragment of my purple phone case laying defeated near the head board. I sit up fully, putting a hand to my head to steady the pain, and see an explosion of plastic all over the floor. The phone is destroyed. On the bright side, I won’t be hearing from anyone else tonight.

I lay back down and place my hands over my face. My cheeks are damp but my eyes are dry, albeit, mostly likely still blood shot. If I had known what was going to happen today I never would have gotten up this morning. But that’s the beauty of this world, isn’t it? We have no idea what’s going to happen to us. It could be completely horrifying and yet we somehow end up walking right into it. There was no way out of this one. No way in hell. I should have seen it coming. But, like everything else in my life, I’m always blindsided. Blindsided and shoved aside when it happens. I’ll bet he gave all of those social climbers my number. Have someone else do the dirty work for him. He is, after all, a spineless prick and always has been. He never does anything for himself. Everything is handed to him and he gladly puts his hand out. Forget doing things for others. Forget the fact that people have feelings. Why should he think of any of that when he’s too busy sitting on his high horse? He didn’t even get on the horse by himself. He was hoisted up and taught how to ride. And ride he did. All over anyone in his path, hooves stomping and mouth braying.

Just thinking of him makes me want to punch something. My fist is ahead of my brain as my fingers clench together tightly. I notice dark marks on my knuckles and realize where the dent in the closet door came from. As I lay there an idea comes to mind. An awful idea, that waxes and wanes inside my head, turning this scowl on my tired face into a wicked smile.

After I’m through with him, he will wish he had a spine to keep his over-inflated ego afloat.

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