At first, she thinks that maybe, finally, Cristina's brain broke. She went crazy. Only explanation. One second, she's being the dutiful best friend, helping her throw a necklace worth more than her mother's house onto the ground; next second, Cristina's become a monkey incarnate. She's pulling her huge up-do apart, tendrils of curly dark hair falling onto her shoulders. She starts pulling things from shelves, throwing things onto the ground, tears streaking her mascara. Meredith thinks that this is the second time she's seen Cristina break down, and this time, there's no Burke to comfort her.
Hurricane Cristina continues on her rampage. Clothes are pulled from the closet and tossed into the living room. Meredith isn't sure whether to participate or be afraid, so she settles for something in-between. She decides to fling the sofa cushions onto the ground. Cristina would laugh at her lack of viciousness, were she sane at the moment, but she isn't, and she doesn't catch Meredith's actions.
It's only when the hurricane moves to the kitchen that Cristina peaks. She hurls open the cabinets with sudden fury. Her hands grab at the dishes and she flings them to the floor. They shatter loudly. Meredith wants to tell her to be careful, but her voice catches in her throat. This is what Cristina needs right now. It's her own insane little coping mechanism.
"Cristina?" she murmurs softly. "Cristina, I'm going to go." She's not even sure Cristina hears her, not sure she's even doing the right thing, but she thinks it is. Alone time is probably the best thing for Cristina right now, so she slips past the front door and heads to the elevator and tries to assure herself that this isn't some kind of cowardice in a way. Cristina pays no mind, just goes on shattering plates.
She doesn't want to acknowledge that Burke's changed her, that he's left an imprint on who she is. She doesn't want to touch on the fact that she'll expect a small Christmas tree in the apartment, his neatness everywhere—tries to forget his warmth, his touch, how he looks when he's happy, when she makes him happy. She's never been one to embrace dependency, especially on other people, and this is what's happening. She's breaking off, except she feels like she's hit some strange derivation of nesting syndrome, and she doesn't even want to begin to wonder why she feels strangely empty.
So she shatters plates, CDs, anything breakable—she wants to uproot him, remove his presence. How dare he. To change her, to trick her into wanting this, to convince her, persuade her, and now, all of a sudden, to leave? To pretend that this was her doing? And nothing, not even a note. The little nuances of his life still linger, but she'll destroy them soon enough. If he wants to leave, he shouldn't have done it half-heartedly. She'll finish the job for him. Like back when they were the Bonnie and Clyde of cardiac surgery.
She goes to throw her next plate when she feels a dull pain in her foot. She walks to the sofa, wincing every so often, and sits. She stepped on a shard. That's what you get when you try and unleash wrath barefoot, she thinks. She's not sure what brings about this calmness of feeling: the blood or the pain. She slips on her shoes and heads to the hospital.
She sits there, in an exam room with a suture kit, and she patches herself up, does the surgeon thing. She's quick and precise, and when she's done, the unsettling feeling in her stomach has reduced to just a flutter.
She goes and she finds Bailey. "I need to work." The smaller woman looks her up and down and conveys her answer in a glance.
"No."
"But—"
"I said no, Yang." She grasps Bailey's arms in an odd show and just looks at her. She must look absolutely ridiculous. She remembers last second that she forgot to wash the mascara streaks off her face.
"Please." It's either a miracle or Bailey's seen how desperate she is. She merely grunts and heads off.
"Fine. You can handle the pit."
She's happy with anything. The pit is better than going home to roost in an apartment devoid of life. It's just mess now, just chaos. She sighs in relief, her shoulders sloping forward. She'll show him. She doesn't need the amazing Preston Burke. She wants him. She loves him. But she doesn't need him.
She's a surgeon first, and a person second, and he'd do well to remember that. She closes her eyes, remembering the feeling of a scalpel in her hand. She'll show him.