Sarah

Not wearing a scarf the night before left Sarah’s hair disheveled, and this time she sweated profusely. A tear rolled down her face, which she violently wiped away. The covers that comforted her in the night were a vast annoyance now. She violently ripped those away, too. Her feet finally made it to the floor as she sat with her head in her hands, trying to control her breathing. She hated mornings these days. She sat up slowly without opening her eyes. Instead, she inhaled the fresh air coming from her bedroom window; she forgot to close it. She exhaled, this time opening her eyes. She fixed her gaze at the empty pillow beside her with a cold, vicious stare, as if it were an enemy she was about to murder. Her breathing picked up again to a pace she couldn’t control. She couldn’t hold it anymore. So she screamed out. Not into the pillow this time, not while in the shower with the bathroom door closed. She screamed out so that the world could hear. It was ugly; it wasn’t classy like the dingy t-shirt she wore to bed, but it was her, raw and unfiltered. She grabbed the sheets on “his side of the bed” with a full fist and whispered with a tear.

“I hate that bitch!”