A/N: *All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of Stephenie Meyer. I own nothing but an over-active imagination and some life experiences that desperately needed purging. No copyright infringement is intended.*
Huge thanks to my Twilighted beta, therunway, who gently shoved me in the right direction.
Even bigger thanks to the girls from Sparkly Red Pen, Snarky Much and StellaBlueBella, who put insane effort in to making the crap I write readable and pretty.
Chapter Three
This Love is Over
BPOV
I slowly peeled my eyes open, bracing for the stabbing pain that would no doubt ensue the second the damned light of day hit them. "Argh," I groaned as the effects of the wine really began to make themselves known.
Carefully I rolled out of bed and stood. I stretched, flexed my muscles and then went about gathering some clothing. I traipsed to the kitchen and put a pot of coffee on. I pushed myself up onto the countertop. I sat there listening to the sounds of the percolator and taking in the quiet of the morning.
This room was always one of my favourites, from the slate grey countertops, white washed cupboards, and the wispy subtle white of the walls, to the lemon yellow accents throughout. The house was old, but the kitchen had been updated since we'd moved in. Mike had wanted something ultra-modern, with stainless steel everywhere. I, on the other hand, wanted something that made people feel comfortable and was functional. I won.
"Good morning sunshine," Rose drawled from the doorway. Lost in the fine detail of a decorative bowl, I hadn't heard her approach.
I tossed her a weak smile. "Hung-over you still look ridiculously hot. I hate you," I grumbled.
She truly was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen; tall, blond, shapely figure, piercing blue eyes that had a hint of violet to them, and a smile that brought most men to their knees. Hell, it brought plenty of women to their knees. I can recall, on more than one occasion, a woman or two making a play for the glorious Rosalie Hale back in our university days.
Self-consciously, I tugged at the hem of my oversized night shirt as I watched her. She was clad in nothing but a black bra and panty set. "Still sleep in the nude, Rosie?" I asked handing her a mug.
"Yes. I only get dressed-up like this for guests." She winked at me. I'd long since gotten over the sight of a very naked Rose wandering about.
When Rosalie was seventeen years old, heading to her car, she was approached by three boys that had followed her from the party she'd just left. She ignored the catcalls and kept right on walking toward her little red Accent. She thought she was safe when she slid the key in and pulled open the door. She was wrong. She'd spent the next hour stuffed in the back seat of her own car, each one taking his turn with her, brutally beating her when she cried out for help. Eventually she stilled and stopped fighting.
That's the night it happened.
The night Rose really started to own her body. She stood up straight and tall and walked into that court room every single day of the trial. She moved with grace and confidence, owning the bruised and battered skin. She spoke in facts, keeping emotion to the side were it belonged. To her, in that situation, in the courtroom full of people judging her, emotions were subjective, and anything that could be misconstrued wasn't going to help her.
Rose refused to see her body as the reason behind her torture. Instead, she put the blame right where it belonged and laid it bare at the feet of her three attackers, the men that used her body like a toy, an object to be possessed or controlled. Rosalie Hale was no object; her body belonged to no one, but her, and she did with it as she pleased.
So it was fairly typical to find a naked Rose strutting around, looking magnificent and oozing confidence from every pore. Of course it's a habit Emmett wholeheartedly encourages. He clearly worshiped the very ground beneath her perfectly manicured feet. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear that she had custom ordered him or something. He was completely perfect for her, a true soul mate.
I knew the night they met, she was done for...
She came bounding into our dorm room like a kid hopped up on sugar. She ripped Wuthering Heights from my hands and carelessly chucked it clear across the room.
"Hey," I said in protest, shooting her a death glare.
She placed a single finger on my lips to silence me, and a big goofy grin stretched across her sun kissed face.
"Bella, I'm sooo fucked!" she sighed happy, content. Not what I was expecting given the preamble. "I fell in love with a dark haired muscle bound buffoon. But oh my fuck, those dimples and that curly hair..."
I sat there for the better part of an hour as she droned on about the sexy buffoon she'd gone shot for shot with at the party two floors below us.
She was toast, and I knew it right then.
Rose's voice wafted into my ear, shaking me from my memory. "So, what are your plans for the day?"
"Huh? Oh, plans, right. Well, after I work off this kick-ass hang over, I fully intend to bang out the next chapter of my new fan-fiction." I was an utter dork and openly admitted it. I whiled away most of my free time reading or writing.
"Oh good, I was wondering when the next chapter was going to be uploaded. You know, Bella, that shit you write is like literary crack. Your last one was great, but this new one's getting insane reviews."
I ducked my head and blushed at her words. "Yeah, it's doing well," I sheepishly conceded.
"I've said it before, Bells, I really think you should try your hand at writing professionally. You know, an original fiction, never mind fucking with other peoples characters." Rose's voice carried across the kitchen, her tone was adamant, almost demanding. She really believed this was something I could do. Angela and Jake had said much the same before.
"Mm, maybe," I mused as I waddled toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower, you know where everything is."
I turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature. I pulled my shirt over my head and stood looking in the mirror.
My body's not that bad, I thought turning this way and that. Okay, so your tits aren't exactly huge, but they're full and they have a nice shape to them. And I always thought I had a great set of legs –long creamy, smooth. Not bad. But not good enough. Not for Mike at least.
I stepped away from the mirror quickly and stripped the rest of my clothes off. Climbing into the skin, the warm, thick stream enveloped me, clinging to my body. Hot water pelted down on my ivory skin, bringing a natural blush to the surface. I stood there under the water and let the heat work its magic on my tight muscles, washing away some of the tension I had.
The pounding in my head and tension locking down my body wasn't just the result of an evening spent with a seemingly bottomless wine bottle, and I knew it. It was the product of ragged, searing emotions burning and licking at me; of all the uncertainty, anger, self-doubt, confusion, self-loathing, and rage that had run rampant in me for the last eighteen hours or so. It had already begun to take root and bloom deep in my muscles, making them sore. I reached up and adjusted the shower head, and the massaging water beat down on my upper back in a concentrated stream of heat. I felt the muscles there loosen up and just a little more tension slid away.
I washed and got dressed. When I opened the door to the bathroom, I was assaulted with the thick aroma of bacon and eggs. Rosie was cooking for me. My lips smacked as I practically danced back to the kitchen.
"Mmm. That smells wonderful, Rose."
She turned away from the stove top and beamed at me. "Least I could do after I got you trashed last night, Bells."
We finished our breakfast – and yes, I called it breakfast regardless of the fact that it's just past two in the afternoon- and Rose left with a promise from me to call.
I trekked upstairs to the office and took a seat in front of my computer screen. My eyes roamed the room, plaqued movie posters donned the deep, dusky teal walls and the hideous throw rug that Mike just had to have laid on the floor at my feet. I hated the maroon colour of it against the dark wood of the floors, but he thought it looked great, so I'd conceded.
I turned the monitor on and opened the document containing the latest chapter of Confessions of a Golden Eyed Deity. I settled into my writing routine with ease, pulling up my playlist and cuing up a random tune. Next, I opened my trusty on-line dictionary/thesaurus. Lacing my fingers together and pushing out, I heard the comforting symphony of knuckles popping and cracking. I then read over the last paragraph or two, closed my eyes and let the pictures roll into my head, drowning out every other thought. Behind my eye lids and deep in the recesses of my brain a story played out like a movie, full of sound and movement.
When I got a grasp on the scene playing out in front of me, my fingers began pecking at the keys. The words appeared one by one, each building on the next until the words began to take on the form of the pictures playing against my mind. Writing always felt so safe to me, a way for me to push the things inside my head out, give them life, and give them meaning beyond what I see. It's an outlet for me, one of the few I have in my life and it makes me stupid happy. I could sit, plugged into whatever fantasy world I'd created for hours at a time. Sometimes the words didn't come immediately. Sometimes they sounded all wrong and I had to work through that. But even then, I enjoyed the challenge it offered me and I patiently worked my way through it.
Music is part of the process for me, often it's just background sound, something I sing along too, but sometimes it becomes a part of the scene, and helps me to create the right tone. Every now and again when I find myself stuck and the words have ceased, I'll scroll through my playlist and listen to various songs that I think fit with the tone of the scene. When I've found the right song, like a soothing massage it releases the hold my brain had on the words I needed, and I once again find my fingers gliding across the keyboard, often in time to the music, which I find a little more than funny sometimes.
I copied the content of the chapter into an email and sent it off to my beta for correcting before it could be uploaded to the site. But I still have fresh images rolling in, so I opened the story back up and began working on the next chapter. The song changed, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.
'Goin' out of my mind
Don't even know my own name half the time
How'd I get so blind that I couldn't see
What was in front of me?
How didn't I see it? How did I miss something this big? Then again why would anyone lie about something like this?
Wish I was wrong,
I wish that you were right here lyin' in my arms
Deep down inside I got to face the truth
That you're not comin' home
A wave of what I could only describe as acute grief rolled up on me as I folded myself forward and rested my head between my legs in an attempt to bring the spinning room around me to halt. I could feel my lungs work hard to draw in the air they so desperately needed, but it was all to no avail; the action resulted in nothing more than hyperventilation.
Shit, shit, shit...Pull it together Isabella Marie Swan! I mentally chastised myself for using my maiden name and quickly corrected myself- Newton, Isabella Marie Newton.
This love is over
This love is over
God knows I tried
I did everything I could to keep you satisfied
Bein' my baby was just a part you played
Like it was all some kind of game
Drawers full of lingerie, adult board games stashed in the closest, nights away at cute little B&B'S. All for nothing; I was never what he wanted, never what he needed. But he was always what I'd wanted. Sweet, smart, and when he looked at me I see that he cared for me.
My chest began to hurt with the effort, it heaved erratically, and I tried like hell to even it out, to find a better pace. Preferably something that wouldn't have me passed out on the office floor.
And just like a child
Just like a child you got to have your way
Nothin' ventured, nothing gained
Now there's nothin' left to say
Nothing left to say... No, not the case, I want fucking answers. Why me? Why lie to me all these years?
Before I could even finish that thought an answer presented itself. Fear. Why would anyone hide who they were if not for fear of being ridiculed, ostracized, hated?
This love is over
This love is over
Baby, I know I'll get along
Sometimes you got to make it on your own
It's more that my pride that's got me all tied up inside, girl, it's all the lying
Did he use me as shield, something to hide behind? I mean, I get being afraid, I do, but why bring someone along for the ride? Why suck them into the pit with you, when you know it can only result in suffering? FUCK.
I sat up slowly, and the grief for what I'd lost quickly morphed to anger. The same anger I felt blooming in me yesterday. I could feel it filling my veins, shooting through me like venom.
Guess it's time to close the door
I don't wanna cry anymore
It's just not worth fightin' for, this love
It's over, this love is over
How do I close the door on something that's spanned more than a fucking decade!
How do I do this, how does anyone do this?
I was shocked back to room when the phone rang. Nearly breathless, I answered, "Hello?"
"Bella? You don't sound so great. I was calling to see how you were doing, see if you needed anything, chicken soup or something." Angela's voice was like the gentle caress of a soft hand, it immediately soothed me. "But this doesn't sound like a chicken soup kind of problem." She missed nothing. Obviously something about my tone had tipped her off.
"It's been a pretty awful day, Ang. A fucking awful..." I checked the clock. "Twenty something hours actually." I let a hot, irritated puff of air out.
"Did you want to tell me about it?" I knew if I said no, she wouldn't push; she wasn't that kind of person. Angela would accept my decline to talk with grace, and silently- as she always did- she would let me know that she was there if I needed her. But I wanted to talk, I hated this venom pooling in me and I hated the burning feeling it left me with. I wanted it out and talking seemed to help last night, so I dove in with a long sigh.
After what felt like eons, Angela spoke, "Oh god, Bella... I... I..."
"Lost for words? Can't blame you, it's not like there's a Hallmark card for this shit, no proper sentiment. Congratulations certainly doesn't fit." Glad to see my sarcasm is still alive and well.
"I guess you're right, but I am sorry, Bella. I'm sorry that there's even the tiniest doubt in your mind. That's got to be hell. I don't know what I'd do if it were Ben..."she trailed off, obviously not wanting to put herself in my shoes. I mean seriously, who wanted to be walking around in these things right now? If I could step out of them and simply walk away, I would. Fuck my life.
"It's alright, Ang. I understand what you're saying. I just don't know what I'm going to do with the information, or if I even want to use it. I mean just the thought, the possibility of him... I..." I choked on my words, and my hands shook.
"But, you've been with him for ten years, you love him. You don't want to hurt him, and you don't want to hurt," Angela said.
"I feel like I'm split in two, Ang. One part of me wants to see what that program will find and throw it in his face. The other half remembers what felt like to fall in love with him. That safe, homey feeling he's always provided. That part of me, the part that always saw care in his eyes and melted at his smile, wants nothing to do with any of this. She wants to crawl away and hide. But Angela, I don't think I can keep doing this." Tears were streaming down my face, and I was pacing the room as if movement would somehow slow the thoughts that rattled through my brain.
"I wish I had the answers, Bella, I really wish I did. This isn't an easy decision and one I don't envy you for having to make. But, Bella, I do envy your strength. Regardless of what was difficult or trying, it always comes down to what's going to work best for you. And, honey, you're the only one that matters here. If you don't think you can tolerate your marriage the way it is, than do what you need to. Either way, I'm here." Angela sighed on the other end, and I could picture her loving face in my mind, eyes closed, worried wrinkles pushing up around her forehead. She didn't need my worries right now; she surely had enough on her plate.
"Thanks, Angie. It means a lot to me that you understand, even more so that you're willing to keep any negative commentary to yourself. But listen, I'm going to go do some laundry and get dinner ready." I really did need to get moving, laundry did indeed need to be done. Then a thought occurred to me. "Oh, but wait, how was Tyler today? Did you guys get the incident report with Rose's recommendation?"
"A little more of the hitting and self-harm this afternoon, but with far less gusto this time around. You know, most kids love gym time, but this kid acts like your trying to slit his throat. Definitely not his preferred activity," she said with a chuckle.
"Well sitting in a corner, running his fingers over the cracks in the wall for hours at a time just isn't on the schedule," I joked, knowing damned well that that is exactly what the young Mr. Tyler would be doing if he had the choice. Closed off to the world around him, caught up in some kind of self-stimulating behaviour; his idea of paradise no doubt.
"Well I think Monday will be better still. Do you start off at Stevens Middle School on Monday or at Dry Creek?" Angela asked.
Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, I worked between Dry Creek and Stevens. Tuesdays I was at Jefferson, and Thursdays were split between Port Angeles High School and what they called 'prep-time' in the office. Paperwork had to be done at some point in the week. There were only two Behavioural Specialists for the entire district, which covered eight schools, and being that I was the more senior of the two, I had the bigger caseload. Emily joined the team just over a year ago after Jane up and left for a position in Italy. I suspected a man was involved, but she would have never admitted it. I had to say, I was glad to see Jane go. Though she knew her shit, in theory anyway, she had a tendency to scare the living crap out of the children. She could be so intense.
"Stevens, I have a parent meeting to attend. So I'll be at Dry Creek by noon or so for lunch."
"Alright, I'll bring lunch, my treat... I'm thinking Chinese?" Angela said.
"Sounds good to me."
"Good, that's settled then."
"Okay, Ang. Have a good night and I'll talk to you later, okay?" I said, standing beside the desk as I pivoted from one foot to the other, trying to work the tingles away.
"Absolutely, but, Bella, if you need me, just call or come on over. I don't care if it's two in morning, I'm here if you need me." Her voice was laced with such concern that it brought a tear to my eye.
"Will do," I answered.
"Good. I mean it Bella. I love you." And as long as I lived I'd never doubt that.
"I know, love you too, Angie. Good night."
"Night, Bella." The line fell silent.
I'd already shut down the computer, deciding against tackling the next chapter after all. I made my way to the basement where a mountain of laundry awaited me. "Oye," I said, eying up the heap. "I need less time consuming hobbies, seriously." I shook my head and dug in.
Once I had the first load going, I headed back upstairs to the kitchen. I stuck my head in the freezer and looked over the contents, then the fridge, and then over to the cupboards, pulling them open one by one. I stood in the middle of the kitchen like I'd been dropped into some mystery spot and wasn't sure what I was supposed to do next. "Honestly, I just don't fucking feel like it."
Normally I'd have been whirling around the kitchen like a domestic diva in her element, but I just couldn't quite bring myself to give a shit about dinner. I looked down at my sweats and tank top and thought pizza sounded great. No cooking, no cleaning. Sitting on the couch devouring Papa Gino's pizza in my sweats sounded like heaven. Sorry Mike, no home cooked meal tonight.
The pizza arrived a little after six. The smell wafted through the house making my mouth water. I peeled back the lid and set it down on the coffee table and then went about pouring myself a glass of Coke. When I'd had everything set up around me, I scooted down on the chocolate brown leather couch, pulling a thin ivory throw over my legs. I surfed through the television channels and happened on reruns of Six Feet Under on HBO and settled there. I munched on my pizza and got lost in the show; I didn't hear the front door open or the footsteps as they approached.
"You look cozy." Mike's voice pulled me out of my daze, and I turned to see him standing at the mouth of the living room. An overnight bag was strung over his left shoulder, and his wide blue eyes gazed upon me as a lazy smile crept across his face. I used to love that smile.
"Very, good pizza and a Six Feet Under marathon kicking, all is good." Nothing could be further from the truth. In that moment, I wanted to scream my accusations at him. I steeled myself and flashed him a weak, but hopefully convincing smile. "How was the convention thingy?" I asked with as much interest as I could possibly afford.
"Oh not bad, pretty much the same shit, nothing spectacular," he answered, sliding the overnight bag down his arm. It hit the floor with a soft thump. "There's a new line of camping gear that I'm interested in. It runs a little cheaper than some of the bigger names, might do well in this area." He droned on about some fucking piece of camping equipment or other while he unpacked his toiletries. He was half shouting from the bathroom, which was only eight feet away.
Really Mike, I couldn't give a shit about the bear proof coolers, but you go right ahead, keep prattling on way freaking louder than need be.
"So how was your day today?" he asked after what felt like hours of convention talk.
"I didn't go in today, awful migraine," I quickly explained. See I can tell lies too, I thought, but quickly shook it for my thoughts. You don't know that yet, Bella, not yet, I tried to tell myself.
"Ah, well that certainly explains the pizza."
For some reason that comment offended me. My inner bitch had lurched forward the moment I laid eyes on him. I knew I needed concrete proof before tackling the issue; gut instinct was not enough, so I was going to have to bite back the urge to react. I simply nodded my head and offered a flat, "mm" in response.
My inner bitch screaming. 'This ain't Betty Crocker's house, asshole. You want a home cooked meal, maybe you should shuffle on over to your parents' house. I'm sure they're enjoying a perfect fucking meal as we speak!' Yeah, she's a piece of work.
Mike joined me on the couch and he snatched up a piece of pizza. With some amusement, I noticed my body involuntarily recoiled as his thigh brushed my foot. I tucked them further underneath me and scooted closer to the corner of the couch. I turned my attention back to the TV and watched as Ruth Fisher flew into one of her epic hissy fits. She'd always been one of my favourite characters on the show. My own mother reminded me a little of Ruth, good hearted and sensible, if a little naive and flighty. I loved her dearly.
God I wonder what she'll think of this whole mess?
It wasn't long before I began to twitch and fidget next to him. I didn't want to be there. I couldn't be there, not without saying or doing something foul. I got up and hauled myself back down to the laundry room. I moved the loads and carefully folded the ones I'd pulled from the dryer. That sucked up all of about twenty minutes, so I retreated back to the office. Pulling up the MSN messenger, I saw that Jake was online.
Bells: Hey, how goes it?
I waited while he replied. I plugged my earphones into the computer and cued up my playlist. I looked for something loud and a little destructive. Slipknot –Wait and Bleed, yup that'll do.
Jake: Hey, Bells, it goes. Anything exciting shaking down in Port Angeles?
Bells: Define exciting...
My knee bounced, and the lyrics and thick double percussion boomed loud in my head.
Jake: Mmm, gossip worthy.
I'm pretty damned sure marrying an alleged homosexual would most certainly qualify as gossip worthy.
Bells: Um, can I plead the fifth on that, perhaps save my answer until another time?
Jake: I guess... What's up? And don't say nothing 'cause I'll call bullshit.
I felt sneaky and nervous about talking about this with Mike right downstairs, but I had questions for him, questions that really only Jake could answer. I took a deep breath and thought about how to word what I wanted to ask him.
Jake: Bells?
Shit.
Bells: Sorry, I'm here. I can ask you something?
Jake: You can ask me anything.
Bells: What do you think of Mike and me as a couple? I mean even in high school, what did you think of us being together?
Jake: Okay... Uh I guess I thought he was what you needed because you always looked so happy to with him. But... No never mind.
Bells: Say it, Jacob.
Jake: I always thought it was weird that you never seemed to fight. You still don't. Leah and I fight all the time (makes for some great sex later). But you and Mike never fight. At first I thought that was cool, that you guys always got along so well, but being married now, I don't understand how you do it.
I thought about this for a moment before I answered him. It was true that Mike and I never really fought, and that was something that always bothered me about him; it was like he wasn't willing to put the effort into a disagreement. On more than one occasion, I actually tried to start an argument just see what his reactions would be; I wanted to get something more from him, something more than just the monochromatic responses I'd come to know.
Bells: I used think I was lucky we never fought, but I've come to see it a lot differently lately.
Jake: Everything okay, Bells?
Bells: Can I ask you something else a little more, umm, intimate?
Jake: Sure, fire away. Like I said, you can ask me anything, always.
Bells: Right. When we were together, was I good?
How do you ask your ex-boyfriend if you were a decent lay? Fuck. This conversation was shaping up to be tons of awkward, but I wanted to know.
Jake: Uhh, Bells, are you asking me if you were 'good', like the sex was good?
Bells: Yup, that's what I'm asking. And don't be an ass-hat, just answer the question.
Jake: Hey, I have feelings to, Bitchella (kisses). And yes, Bells, the sex was good. You were good. Does this have anything to do with Mike? Did he say something to you? I'll break his face, I swear.
Bells: Not exactly. But yes, it has to do with him... and me. Was there anything that you found... unappealing about me, my body I mean? I mean I know I'm going back awhile, but...
Okay, if it wasn't the sex, then maybe it was me, maybe I just didn't physically appeal to him. Yeah, like you have a vagina... and he's allergic. I'd say that's unappealing.
Jake: Okay, yup, I'm going to turn your husband in to kibble. What did he say, Bella?
Bells: He didn't SAY anything, Jake.
And truly he hadn't spoken a word, not one word in either direction come to think of it. I think I could count on one hand the number of times I'd heard him say I looked pretty. No heated coital moans proclaiming his love for my body. Maybe he just wasn't the vocal kind. Jake was always very vocal. He's definitely a boob man, and lucky for him Leah's got a great rack.
Jake: So it's a matter of doing, or, now stop me if I'm wrong, not doing? How long has it been?
Bells: A little over a month.
Jake: A month? Christ Bella. Wow. Can I ask you something now? How's the sex? (Oh and to set the fucking record straight here, there never has been anything unappealing about your body. EVER.)
Bells: Thanks, Jake, I needed that. And to answer your question, it's awful.
Jake: I'm sorry, Bells, honestly. I know it's a little weird, but I'm here if you need to talk.
Bells: Yeah, I bet Leah would just love that. Ex-girlfriend wants to talk sex with her new husband. Right.
Jake: She'd understand, besides she hates Newton. She's always thought he was hiding something.
I had to clamp my hand down over my mouth to keep the laughter at bay. If she only knew.
Bells: That's interesting, perhaps your wife is a little more perceptive then I thought. Anyway, thanks for the chat, I've got to check on the laundry. TTYL.
Jake: Anytime. And just say the words, Bella girl, and I'll kick his lily white ass from Port Angeles right on down to the rez.
Bells: Easy Cujo. Night, Jake.
Jake: Night.
Though it wasn't even nine at night, I'd felt so drained and completely consumed that I hollered down to Mike that I was going to bed early. I shut down my chat session and stripped out of my clothes before I'd even hit the bedroom door. I pulled on an old concert t-shirt that was stretched all to hell and almost twice my size; I threw my arms up over my head, arching my back. I heard a gentle pop as I came out of the stretch. Feeling as relaxed as I was going to get, I crawled into bed. I had to work to quiet my racing mind and it wasn't until somewhere after ten that I finally drifted off.
The light of day bloomed, and a faint glow of light filtered through the bamboo shades. I rubbed my eyes, opened them, and allowed them time to adjust to the tiny bit of light. I looked to my left, no Mike. Huh. I looked at the clock, 7:24am. Dollars to donuts he'd went to the store early this morning.
I flexed and contracted my muscles and then stood. I made a stop off at the bathroom, then started for the stairs fully intending to make a ham and cheese omelette for breakfast. I paused at the top of the stairs and thought about the key logger. Had he been online? I turned back toward the office and very hesitantly shifted the mouse lifting it from its program induced slumber.
Shift, K, L, D, enter. Password- twoleftfeet. My finger hovered over the enter button.
"Shit," I grumbled to myself dropping my hands to my lap. What if I'd done this all for nothing? What if the key logger never showed me a damn thing? I pushed back on the chair, sliding a good foot away from the desk.
Then again, what if you're right? What if that burning stone in the pit of your stomach is right and everything you know is a lie? And if it is are you ready to deal with that are you ready for the fallout?
I pulled myself back to the keyboard and again my finger hovered over the enter key, shaking. The thinnest trickle of doubt shivered down my spine. I stood abruptly and marched from the room.
End Notes:
The song used in this chapter is by Ray LaMontagne called This Love is Over, check it out - /xUNGsYEd7Bw
The other song referred to is Wait and Bleed by Slipknot, great tune if you like things a little on the heavy side, here's the link to check that one out too, /OOZZAEWePmY
Thanks monolog