Venomous Mistake
This is Marco and Clara's brutal/sexy story.
Clara
Revenge was my goal-to take down the enemy. I've trained under my Uncle, but everything crumbles when my foolish heart starts beating for a man I shouldn't want. Rule one-seek veng...
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I shouldn't care for her! So tell me, why the fuck am I sitting in the hallway listening to her fucking cry? I've just returned from the casino, and it's two in the fucking morning. I should have untied her before I left, but she begged me to let her go.
Why does she want to go? Where does she want to go? I don't know what to believe. She said she doesn't love Camilo, and fuck, I shouldn't have cared if she did. I'm fucking jealous, alright. I'm the one she should have loved.
When she spat the words, I hate you, she didn't know how that fucking cut deep, and my words? They were bitter on my tongue, and I'd seen how it fucking tore her. I hated this because I love this fucking woman. I don't want to fucking hurt her, but she makes me so fucking mad by not speaking.
I never expected Clara to cry. That wasn't Clara six months ago. Clara then didn't fucking cry, and she rarely showed emotions, and now, she is crying. Is she faking it?
I won't forgive myself if she isn't faking this. Clara begged me for a doctor, and I refused. She didn't fight me when she did it. She cried instead. I fucked up, didn't I? I ran a hand through my hair and swallowed.
I get up and walk to the telephone in the kitchen. It's late, and I don't give two fucks. That doctor had better show up in ten minutes. "Dr. Mashkov." I woke him from his sleep, but he'd expect that when this was his job.
"Bortsov. Walk with pain medication, too." I recite my address to him and end the call. I grab a bottle of vodka on my way out of the kitchen and enter what once was my bedroom. I'd switched since Clara disappeared.
The scent of black orchids and floral oil reaches my nostrils, reminding me of the purple soap she loved showering with. It would leave an enchanted scent on her skin, and with a closed room, it's all her. I haven't touched this room since that winter night, and it's not a pretty sight.
The bed is not against the wall anymore. The curtains are on the floor because I ripped them off the wall. The dresser is nothing but wooden splits. The mirror-cracked, and I tore the lamps and broke them. Dust coats the ceiling and floors and swirls in the air. Even the painting above the bedpost got torn into shreds.
The only things standing are the chandelier above, which I vividly remember trying to destroy before I drank the pain away and her scent that still lingers amongst the chaos. That's only the bedroom, though.
In the bathroom, her soap, toothbrush, brush, hair products, and the towel she used before leaving remained untouched-everything else-smashed.
In the closet, her clothes are still lined and untouched. My side? Empty. In the heat of chaos, I left her things pristine and didn't know why. Now? I do know. It's because I hoped she'd come back willingly and apologise, and as hours turned into days into weeks, she didn't. I even wished somewhere deep down that when I found her, she'd apologise, but she just wanted to go.
