Damage

The reflective shards shook violently as they cascaded to their final resting place. The crimson estuary began pooling at the end of my finger, dripping occasionally as I attempted to close the door. The sunlight pierced the curtains that now lay limply opened, highlighting the neglected walls that were filling with damp as quickly as a sink fills with water.

The bar across the road was welcoming its daily ‘happy hour’ bunch, and already I could hear the predictable and self-righteous voices of the local jobless men that haven’t heard the term ‘provider’. The protrusion of the glass into my heel escorted my awareness back to my current dilemma.

How far was I to go? Would my pain ever be eased? Would I ever trust again?

 My rational mind just couldn’t seem to supress my eagerness to cause destruction to his belongings, just as he had done to my so called ‘perfect life’. My eyes burned with steaming anger, with each tear that fell onto my cheek engraving a permanent trace of betrayal that would tint all future relationships. I guess that’s what they mean when they refer to a betrayed woman as ‘damaged goods’.