If I Never See Your Face Again (Kellic One-Shot)

If I Never See Your Face Again

That lying cheating bastard. Four years of feelings and time down the drain for him to throw it away by fucking that other guy. What kind of sick fuck does that?!

Now here I was, in our apartment full of his shit and I was at breaking point. The stupid stupid stupid reminders of him and his fucking sweet personality that covered up the fact that every time he said he was working late in the last six months he was wrapping some other fool around his little finger.

"I love you, Kellin," he'd said, and I'd believed him. I'd loved him.

It made me feel sick, but I was determined enough that I would not be going anywhere. He'd walked out after I'd told him we were through, not even bothering to pretend to look like he regretted it, and that was the last I wanted to see of him.

I started with the photographs. Little reminders of us that had made me smile in the bad times. Fuck him. I threw open the nearest window, giving the obnoxiously cheerful sun a glare before I tossed a framed shot of the two of us by the beach into the bushes outside. It gave a crack as it hit the ground that felt so cathartic. I stalked around the flat, tearing pictures off the walls, before returning to the living room and giving them the same graceful exit.

I loved him.

And he did this to me. His precious clothes that he spent so much money on were next. The fancy shirts with brands I'd never heard of proudly emblazoned on the chest. Maybe a homeless person would pick them up. He would hate that. I smiled vengefully at the thought, before throwing the bundle in my arms out.

It took thirteen trips back to our closet to clear it of his shit, and I threw in that shirt he'd bought me because he said he thought the colour would suit me. It was so ugly, who the hell looks good in sludgy brown?! Fuck him and his attempts to win me over with his credit card. I never even realised he was doing it until it was too late.

And there it was, glaring at me from the corner of our bedroom. His pride and joy, a cherry red acoustic guitar, glossy and new. He was going to play so many songs for me, he'd said. I'd never seen him pick it up in the months it had sat there. It always looked so satisfying when rock stars smashed up instruments, so I thought I'd give it a go too. I held the neck high above my head and swung it down to the ground, letting out a yell of frustration as I did. Chunks of the body splintered off, but it wasn't enough. I raised it up and slammed it down again and again and again until the strings were attached to just a floating bridge. Fuck him.

I scooped the pieces into my hands, fueled by too much blind rage to care about splinters, and dumped that out of the window too. There was still so much to do before he was erased from my home, but all the smashing had taken it out of me, so I stayed at the open window, resting my arms on the ledge and looking down spitefully at the pile of all his crap. Yes, this was the right thing to do. He could pick it up from the dirt if he wanted any of it back.

A low whistle caused my head to snap up, looking over at a man stood on the path leading up to the lobby of the apartment complex I lived in. He had a backwards red baseball cap covering some of his long brown hair, tanned skin and a look of amusement.

"What'd they do?" The stranger asked, looking straight up at me.

"I'm... I'm sorry?"

"What'd they do? Little guys like you don't go lobbing shit around like that unless they're pretty mad. Nice job with that guitar, by the way. At least I think it was a guitar, I just saw strings and wood,"

I let out a calming breath before replying, still feeling the buzz of anger in my veins.

"Yeah, it was a guitar," I sighed out, loud enough for him to hear from the ground.