Addicted(11)

“Tori?” I manage to croak out as I shove myself into a sitting position. My hair is in my eyes and I push the long, random curls out of my face before climbing shakily to my feet. I need Tylenol. I need to vomit. I need … something.

I need something I can’t have.

“Tori?” I call again, but she still doesn’t answer.

My mouth is so dry that just saying her name hurts, so I drag myself up and across the room to the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of water, and drink it in three thirsty gulps. That’s when my eyes fall on the note written in Tori’s elaborate scrawl.

Out of tequila. Gone to get some more.

Yeah, because that’s definitely what we need right now. More tequila.

Then again, blacking out was nice. It’s the waking up that hurts like a bitch.

Very deliberately, I walk to the refrigerator and pull the door open. I study the contents carefully, as if my life depends on it. I examine each apple, each carton of yogurt, each stalk of celery as if it’s the most important thing in the world. Because if I’m thinking about the tiny bruise on the side of one of the apples, then I’m not thinking about my own bruises. I’m not thinking about Ethan or Brandon or how the hell I’m supposed to get myself out of the mess my oh-so-carefully plotted life has so quickly become.

It works, too. When I close the fridge, I’m thinking of nothing more serious than the grapes in my right hand and the piece of string cheese in my left. At least until I catch sight of the blender sitting on the counter next to the sink.




The blender.

Ethan’s blender.

The blender that started this whole goddamned thing.

The grapes fall uselessly to the floor as I launch myself across the kitchen. Before I can even form the thought, I’m ripping the blender carafe out of its stand and slamming it, side first, into the granite countertop as hard as I can.

It doesn’t break so I slam it again. And again. And again. Against the counter, the sink, even the floor, but the damn thing is indestructible.

Somehow that knowledge only makes me angrier. My relationship is broken, my heart is broken, I’m broken, and this goddamned blender is still in one piece. I can’t stand it. I can’t f*cking stand it.

Desperate now, and more than a little crazed, I reach into the junk drawer where Tori keeps a bunch of stuff she doesn’t know what else to do with. There’s a hammer in there, just like I remember, and I grab it. I barely remember to shut the drawer before I’m whacking away at the damn blender, determined to break it into as many pieces as I can.

It’s the fourth blow that does it, the claw of the hammer finally cracking the Plexiglas of the carafe and spreading out in a spiderweb design. I watch the crack spread for a second, fascinated by the macabre beauty of the thing, though I don’t know why. And then I’m slamming the hammer into the weakened spot as hard as I can, smashing the carafe into a thousand inconsequential bits.

It’s not enough. Not nearly enough to combat the rage inside of me. I grab the base next, start pounding away at the actual machinery of the blender. It’s not as sturdy as the carafe—less likely to be dropped, I suppose—so it only takes a minute or two for me to break through the casing to the guts of the machine. I yank at the electronics with the hammer’s claw, then get in there with my bare hands and rip the thing to pieces.

Sometime in the middle of all the destruction a loud, high-pitched sound starts. I’m so caught up in the havoc I’m wreaking that I barely notice it. It certainly doesn’t slow me down as I continue to tear at the wires.

I’m hoisting the blender base over my head, preparing to slam it as hard as I can into the tile floor when the front door opens and I find myself face-to-face with a wide-eyed, open-mouthed Tori. She’s got a bottle of tequila in one hand and a take-out bag from our favorite Chinese place in the other and she couldn’t look more shocked if she’d caught me in the act of setting the condo on fire.

It’s only at that exact moment, only as I’m standing here, poised to strike the final blow to the first present Ethan ever gave me—and more than likely to Tori’s ten thousand dollar tile floor, as well—that I realize the high, keening sound filling the condo isn’t electronic.

It isn’t coming from the blender.

It’s human and it’s coming from me.

I’m screaming.

I’m … screaming.

The realization knocks the last of the fight out of me and the blender slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers. It slams into the edge of the counter with a thud, bounces off and lands unceremoniously on the floor, a few inches from my toes.