A Woman Scorned

What a day! Three news conferences, a dozen news stories, and anchoring another dozen newscasts. All in twelve hours. Talk about freaking tired! Not to mention, one dead phone. I neglected to pull my brand-new iPhone 18 Pro from my back pocket before I took care of business in the ladies' room. You guessed it. It’s toast. Soggy toast at that.

Note to self: cell phones and toilet water are kinda like vinegar and oil, only worse. They definitely don’t mix. Twelve-hundred bucks down the commode. Literally.

 Oh yes, and lest I forget (then again, how could I? It’s the worst day ever), a brief but public fight with my ex. While I try to keep my distance and avoid interaction, since he’s a cameraman at our TV station, I’m forced to see Paul daily.

Today, however, I’m overworked, underpaid, and in a snippy mood, and Paul is in a particularly foul frame of mind. Sigh. Another case of vinegar and oil. And naturally, he decides to shoot footage of the governor’s speech from next to where I stand. And, also naturally, he has to open his mouth to stage-whisper, “You may get everything else, bitch, but I’ll get even.”

And I had loved this man?

In the only concession I’ll make, I did rather act like one. But only when I found out he gave the laptop I bought for his birthday to a… get this… a girlfriend! Yeah, that’s what he had the gall to call her. What a way to let the woman you claimed to adore know you're outsies!

And seriously, if she's his so-called girlfriend, who the hell am I? We bought a home together, cohabited for two years (frequently making magic), and recently signed a three-year car lease. When did the man I’d called my prince charming turn into such an asshole?

That’s exactly what I sniped back at him: “Asshole!” before calling the ‘girlfriend’ a money-grubbing slut. She really is, too, no lie. I only met her when she started work at the station a year ago, and I know her history. So does most everyone at work. She constantly flaunts her conquests to anyone eagerly listening. Anyone close enough to hear also has to endure the bragging, whether they want to or not. 

Two cruises, three proposals, and four new designer handbags. Plus, wait, I have to count… five, six, seven, eight pairs of real gold earrings from nine different men. In one year’s time! Those are just the ones she’s bragged about. Oops, make that ten men (since Paul joined the suckers club). And add one fifteen-hundred-dollar laptop to that list. 

Seriously, what the hell is this girl providing to warrant all those lavish gifts? I’ll bet it’s not payment for cooking their favorite dinners or washing their stinky undershorts. Wink, wink. 

I’m sure I turned beet red when another reporter felt the need to intervene. The flush was more from anger than embarrassment, but that, too. Anyway, she leaned in and hissed into my ear, “You two are driving everyone crazy, Misty! Just stop! You need to take your shit elsewhere. Anywhere but work!” 

To clarify, I wasn’t angry with her. I was angry that I allowed myself to get angry enough to warrant intervention… and, Lord take me!... at the governor’s news conference no less. Take my shit somewhere else? Hell, I was losing my shit! 

Yeah, the description of a bad day doesn’t begin to cover it.

Finally home, I lock the door with the brand-new deadbolt. I had all-new locks installed the day after Paul’s departure. Making a beeline for the bathroom, I start the bath water and pour in a generous amount of Calgon. It’s a hot, Calgon bath kind of evening.

I plan to have a long soak and knock back a $150 bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne. I’d saved the bottle for a second anniversary that didn’t happen. Too tired to bother with anything requiring more than popping a cork, I’ll sip champagne as Calgon takes me away.

Then, I’ll slip into bed between brand-new sheets and rest my head on the new feather pillow. No need to explain those replacements. 

It’s not long before the bubbles begin tickling my toes and a big swig of the bubbly tickles my tonsils. My eyelids grow heavy and begin to droop. So heavy… the long day from hell taking its toll. 

The shattering of glass has me practically jumping out of the now-icy water. One look explains the heart-stopping noise. Damn it! At least 75 bucks worth of Moët & Chandon wasted in the second water disaster today. Apparently I’d dropped the bottle onto the tiled floor after falling into a stupor. How I’d managed to hang onto it for… my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when I see the time. Midnight. I’ve been in the tub more than four hours!

Sighing, I shake my head, wincing at a crick in my neck, and reach for a towel. Minding the shards of broken bottle, I begin gingerly stepping out of the bath. I don’t need to slice and dice my feet on top of every other disaster this day. 

One foot on the floor without cutting myself (yay me!)…  balancing so I won’t tumble out, I try lifting my other leg from the tub. What the f? Like a leech sucking my skin, the porcelain suctions my foot in place. 

I try again. Nothing. Fear begins slithering up and down my spine. 

Again, I try. And again, nothing. 

In full-blown panic mode, I scream. Ridiculous, since there’s no one there to help. I’d even welcome Paul at this point. 

An inner voice cautions me to be careful what I ask for. Too late, though. 

Nearly in sync with the revelation, comes another voice. A garbled one I could swear belongs to the man himself. It says one word. My name. “Misty.” From where, though? Where is it coming from? Afraid I’m losing my mind, or severely hungover from not nearly enough bubbly, I scan the room. 

No one there. It’s just my li’l ol’ lonesome. 

“Misty,” it gurgles again, its tone as frigid as the freezing water. My eyes shoot to the bathtub drain. Is it freaking coming from the water pipes? 

“Paul?” I squeak, too frightened to be disgusted by the timid sound. 

“You destroyed me, Misty.” 

“I destroyed you? I think you have that backward, asshole.” Timidity transforms into furious indignation. I don’t question my sanity over arguing with a bathtub drain. 

Crack! Pain such as I have never known explodes in my brain. 

What in Hades?

I'm fully submerged in the water again. Except for one leg twisted wrong over the edge of the old-fashioned clawfoot tub. It, too, is in excruciating pain. I realize I’ve fallen. Had I, in that sudden burst of anger, lost my balance as I twisted toward Paul’s voice? Or was I yanked down?

When I inhale a mouthful of Calgon-flavored water as my head is pulled under, I know with certainty. I’ve been forced down. 

“Paul!” I try to speak. Nothing but bubbles and a tortured "ah" kind of sound escapes my mouth. Shit, am I ever in deep trouble! 

“You kept the house, the car; I got the payments. You destroyed my reputation; my job is in jeopardy… ” 

I don't know how I understand the garbled words, but I do. I try to respond that he brought it all on himself. I can’t, though. Instead, a searing fire tears through my lungs at the effort. Meanwhile, my skin is freezing in crystallizing water. 

He’s an asshole, but he isn’t capable of murder, is he? 

And yet… fear freezes my heart and everything the water hasn’t iced over. 

My body instinctively tries for one last breath, made impossible by what’s becoming my wet tomb. 

“Goodbye, Misty.” 

My watery vision fades into nothing. 

Tsking, Fireman One says to Fireman Two, “This one apparently had too much to drink and fell asleep in the bathtub.” 

“Hardly,” Fireman Two disagrees, frowning at my body. “Look at the leg. It’s obviously broken.” 

Yes, it is. It’s also still shamelessly splayed over the side of the tub. My observation comes from above the three… the two firemen and my body. I might’ve died from sheer embarrassment at my predicament if I weren’t already dead. 

“And there’s a helluva gash on the side of her head.” Fireman Two points to my wound. 

Yuk. Gaping wide open, it looks positively gruesome. 

“Guess you’re right,” Fireman One agrees. “We’d better call the M.E.” 

I don’t stick around for the medical examiner. Paul’s out there somewhere, and it’s time for revenge. Lucky me, I know where to start my search. 

Holy crapola, the instant I mentally visualize the television station, I’m there! I could get used to this! No traffic jams, no gas fumes or honking horns snailing my way from place to place, just presto! Floating from the green room to the conference room, then office to office, and finally, score! 

I spot Paul in all his blonde, Greek-god glory, dominating the production room. Drawing in close behind him, I take great pleasure in noting the hair standing up on the back of his neck. He senses something; something bad. Good. 

Hovering over the open microphone, I say in as sensual a voice as a spirit can manifest, “Thank you, Paul, for killing me. It was a shit thing to do, but you freed me to give you what you truly deserve.” 

Paul trembles in fear, his eyes flooding with horror. I sigh in satisfaction. It’s a good start. There’s no rush, you see. I intend to haunt him, making his life a living hell before I get my final revenge. Then I’ll find the slut. 

They should’ve remembered: There’s nothing worse than a woman scorned.