istakable.
“You brought another woman here?” she screamed, eyes wild.
I took a few steps farther back from her. Even though she was being restrained, I suspected the sergeant might have underestimated her strength, and the extra bit of distance would give him time to catch her if she got away from him.
“What?” was all I could say. I’d never brought another woman into the flat. Fuck. I’d done some stupid stuff now and again, but until Evie, I hadn’t spoken to another woman who wasn’t one of Natalie’s friends or someone I worked with in forever.
“Evangeline West,” she sneered. “That’s her, isn’t it? That bitch waiting outside for you?”
Eyes narrowing further, I said, “How do you know who she is?”
“I Googled her after I found her stupid card!”
You raging fucking psychopath.
“You ripped up her card!” I snapped.
“How long have you been seeing her, Ash?” she yelled, ignoring my question.
There was a dangerous glimmer in her eyes, one I recognised as the warning sign she was about to snap.
The last thing I saw before everything around me started to fade out.
Trying to ignore the strengthening of the ache in my chest, I focused on Sergeant Wright. “Please take her out of here.”
I didn’t need to say any more. Both Evie and I had been clear about the fact we were just friends, and with the police having spent time with both of us, they could see we were telling the truth. Natalie didn’t deserve an explanation.
Sergeant Wright wrestled Natalie out of the room, closing the door behind him. She was still screaming insults at me, and I was somewhere between pissed off with her and afraid she was going to suddenly fly through the door and attack me again.
I glanced around the room, picking up a few more things I could still fit into my suitcase; aftershave, deodorant… my wallet. I picked it up from its place on the chest of drawers and flipped it open. I was surprised to find the twenty-pound note was still there, as were all my cards. I knew she would have drained whatever was left in our joint account, but she was unaware of the other account I’d always had. She’d watched me close an account so my wages went straight into our joint account, but I’d always had a spare savings account. There wasn’t a lot in it, but enough to help me put down a deposit on a new flat when I was back at work and could afford rent again.
When I was sure I had almost everything packed, I let out a long, slow sigh before walking back to the wardrobe to get my photo albums. Truth be told, I didn’t have a lot of photos, but the ones I had were of me when I was a kid, on holidays with my mum or photos of me and her at Christmas, opening presents. A few of school trips I’d gone on, and sports days, and me hanging out with my friends. It wasn’t a lot, but they were memories I loved to look back on.
I reached into the back of the wardrobe, and when my hands found the three photo albums, I breathed a sigh of relief. They were still there. I pulled them out carefully and held them to me for a second. Balancing them all on one hand, I opened the top one.
And there it was.
A photo of my mum holding me when I was born had been ripped in half and pressed back between the pages. I flipped another page, and saw that the next was the same, each photo torn in half, sometimes into more pieces, and put back together like a fucking jigsaw. My childhood memories frayed and crudely re-stitched.
Everything I’d kept inside rushed to the forefront and I dropped the photo albums to the floor, alongside my laptop. There was no point keeping either of them now; both were beyond repair.
Everything was beyond repair. Me. My stuff.
And it was all because of Natalie.
I wanted to shout out. To run into the living room and yell at her for every fucked up thing she’d done, but I didn’t. Instead, with tears threatening to fall, I zipped up my suitcase and picked it up. I lifted it from the bed, and without looking back, I walked out of the room.
Natalie was standing by the window, looking out. She was tense, and I could tell her jaw was clenched. Sergeant Wright and Constable Matthews were standing behind the sofa, as if acting as a barrier, in case she flew at me again.
She turned to look at me, angry tears in her eyes, as if I was the one who had ruined everything we used to have.
Maybe I was. Maybe I made her miserable. Maybe I was never good enough for her.
But throughout everything she’d done to me, I hadn’t once done anything to hurt her. Not physically or emotionally.
She’d broken my belongings, my memories.
And me.