you’ve always looked better doused in wine.
“Can’t you be civil for once?!
Slamming my fist on the table, I scowled at you, anger glazed over my eyes.
“Excuse me, you’re the one not being civil!” you shouted back, pointing your finger in my face. “I’m being as civil as one can be!”
“Oh, please, all you’ve been doing is whining and bickering like a little, fucking baby!” I shouted, standing up and slamming my fist on the table again, knocking your glass over.
“Well I can’t help it when you’re acting like a fucking bitch!” you stood up with me with a frightening glare that sent chills down my spine.
“Excuse me?! I’m the one acting like a bitch?!” I dug my nails into my palms to keep myself from slapping you. I wouldn’t want to ruin that dastardly attractive face of yours; though I’ll never say it to your face, at least, not anymore. “You’re the one that starts picking petty fights like a whiny piece of shit all the time!”
“Well that’s because you can’t do anything right! You’re such an incompetent shit, no wonder your kids fucking hate you–”
Before I knew it, my hand flung forward and slapped you, a red mark forming on your left cheek as tears rolled down my face, ruining my makeup. Perhaps I was wrong; you look so much better with a slap mark on your face.
“Don’t you ever bring my kids into this.” I glowered at you, not bothering to wipe my tears that were now falling onto the wooden table we picked out together.
Not saying a word, you gave me a death stare, your face flushing red with fury. I saw you curl your hands into fists, veins popping out from your muscular arms. I know that you could easily crush my head with your bare hands if you wanted to, which considering the situation, you probably wanted to now. But even so, I wasn’t scared. Not in the slightest. I was hurt. We were happy, so, so happy. You were always there for me, especially after my kids decided that I was no longer their parent. Every night, I’d cry, wishing that I could turn back time and fix all my wrongdoings, wishing that they’d come back to me. And every night, you’d hold me in your arms as you whispered sweet nothings into my ear and peppered kisses all over my face. Now every night, you’re sleeping on the couch and no one is holding me while I cry. What happened to us? All we do now is bicker, bicker, and bicker. I go to bed with a red slap mark on my cheek while you go to bed with the satisfaction of ‘putting me in my place.’ I’m trying, I’m trying so hard to fix this, to fix us. I love you, I truly do. So please, love me the way you used to.
With a smug and cocky grin, you crossed your arms over your chest. “No wonder your kids hate you.”
I was wrong again; I don’t love you.
Grabbing my glass filled with red wine, I threw it in your face, your white dress shirt quickly soaking up the beverage as the rest of it dripped to the floor. Stained red now, you uncrossed your arms, staring down at your shirt with incredulity and ire, just like the last time I got pissed and threw my drink at you. Tears came running down my face even faster than before, my lower lip quivering as I tried to maintain a scowl.
“Get out,” I whispered at first. “Get out!” Then I exploded.
With a gaping mouth, disbelief coated your face. “You can’t be serious–”
“Oh, I’m as serious as one can be,” I copied your words, watching the color drain from your face. “Get out! Get the fuck out!”
I rushed to our room, heading straight for our closet. I could hear you following me, trying to convince me otherwise but I didn’t bother paying attention to what you were saying. They weren’t worth my time anymore. I flung the door open and started chucking your clothes out, probably hitting you in the process.
“Pack your shit and leave! Don’t ever come back!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I’ll probably get a noise complaint later, but oh fucking well.
“Wha– Calm down!” You grabbed my shoulder to turn me back around.
“Get your flithy hands off of me, you asshole!” I tore your hand off my shoulder and went back to throwing your clothes out, quickly moving on to your other possessions once I was done with your clothes.
“Come on, just listen to me–”
“No!” I interrupted you again. Congrats, you’ve finally pushed me to the edge. “You listen to me! I’m done listening to your empty words! I’m done with this, I’m done with us, I’m done trying to fix something that was beyond repair!”
I’m tired. I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore. This relationship was broken to begin with. I know we were happy, but at the end of the day, a glued-together vase is still a broken vase.
“Get out. Just get out,” I whimpered, desperately trying to wipe away my tears.
“But what about my things–”
“I don’t know, I’ll just burn them!” I screamed and pointed to the bedroom door. “Now get out before I burn you too!”
Glaring daggers at my trainwreck of an appearance, you clicked your tongue. “You’re being irrational, calm the fuck down–”
“Did you not hear me the first time, get the hell out of my house before I set your pain of an ass on fire!” I inched closer towards you, my nails digging into my palms once more, possibly drawing blood.
“Fine, you crazy bitch!” You shouted, storming out of the room.
“Oh, shut the hell up!” I followed you, making sure that you would actually leave. You grabbed your jacket before walking out, turning back around to face me after opening the front door.
“I hope you and your sorry ass burn in hell!” You stuck your middle finger at me.
“As to you, fucker!” I shouted back as you slammed the door shut. Once you were gone, I was left in silence, the only noise feeling the air was my panting.
Everything that had just happened began to process in my mind. Did I feel relieved, mad, or upset? I don’t know. All I know is that now, I’m just crying on the ground.
I hate you, I hate that I actually tried fixing our relationship, I hate that I had to endure that, I hate this shitty ass apartment, I hate that my kids don’t love me anymore, I hate my life, I hate me. I hate me.
.
.
.
I cried and cried, until I could cry no longer. I got up and took off my heels, throwing them to the side. Why the hell did we even wear shoes indoors, we’re indoors, we don’t need to be fancy. Whatever, I don’t care anymore. I made my way to the bathroom and turned on the lights, my reflection giving me a hell of a scare. God, I look fucking awful. I took a makeup wipe and started erasing the mess that was on my face. Once I did, I stared at myself a little longer. I still look terrible. My face was tearstained and red, just like your white dress shirt after I threw my wine at it; except for the fact that, ya know, you’d never shed a single tear for me.