Love will tear us apart

Chapter 8

She didn't even know how she managed to get home without causing an accident, she only knew that when she began to clearly understand what had happened, she found herself in the middle of the living room at home, her hands clenched into fists and her gaze fixed on an unspecified point...

Holy fuck.

How on earth could her life suddenly become so hopelessly complicated? How was it possible to feel such pain without any obvious wounds on one's body?

She realized she was holding her breath and took a few deep, labored breaths, feeling her head spin.

Holy fuck.

She walked briskly and quickly towards the bedroom on the second floor, her eyes blurred by the tears that repeatedly threatened to make her lose her foot on the wooden stairs.

And maybe it would have been better.

'No!' she screamed in her head, categorically rejecting that sign of surrender, that throwing in the towel so easily and liberatingly, yet so cowardly.

And she wasn't a coward.

She faced life. She dealt with the shit she received and had done so since she was very little.

She entered the bedroom almost as If she had a specific mission and before long she was undressing, heading towards the shower. She wasn't sure why, she just felt like her skin felt almost burned, tingling.

The shower had some limited positive effects and then she took out her pajamas and put it on.

When she sat down on the bed to put on her white wool socks, she looked up at the large mirror in front of the bed, so loved and used by her since she had entered that house; one of the few pieces of furniture they hadn't gotten rid of when they renovated it. It was an antique style mirror, late 19th century, pickled effect, hand carved, sold at an auction. They fell in love with it at first sight...

She stared at her reflection for a few long moments, noticing every single detail of her dark face. Recently, several times she had come across some photos of her from years before and If she compared them to the figure of her now, she could notice every single, enormous difference. The more she stared at herself, the more she didn't recognize herself; the more she didn't recognize herself, the blacker her mood became.

Her face twisted into a grimace before she put a hand over her eyes and started sobbing with all the pain and anger she had inside her.

It wasn't fair.

Why that was happening to her?

She wasn't sure how long she stayed like that, feeling the need to wallow in her self-pity alone, but when she heard the doorbell ring, she realized that darkness had fallen outside.

She took a deep breath and went to the bathroom to rinse her face quickly.

She was a mess.

She walked down the stairs, more slowly this time, and she stopped in the middle of the living room staring at the front door. If someone had reached the entrance, it meant that they had the keys to the gate and that was not good news.

When the doorbell rang again, this time much longer, Frida moved and looked through the peephole. Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, she opened the door.

They stared at each other and then Frida closed her eyes again and went back inside, leaving the door open. She went to the couch and sank down on it, her head resting on the backrest.

"I tried calling you... several times... you never answered".

Frida took a few seconds before tiredly saying "I don't even have a clue where my phone is, to be honest".