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Please read this story and then decide your actions at the end to get to the next section! Leave your comments below on how you want the story to go!
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Without a word, I walk over to the desk. Neither Peter or the skank in our bed have noticed me yet.
As if my hand belongs to someone else, it reaches towards Peter’s laptop picks it up and smashes it onto the floor.
Now I have Peter’s attention.
“What the fuck was that?” He stops thrusting and looks over his shoulder. All color drains from his face when he sees me. “Ashley? Shit.” I’m still holding the wine bottle. Without a word I extend my arm and drop in on the floor. It shatters into a thousand pieces. I hope it stains the bleached hardwood floor.
“What the hell are you doing?” Peter demands, scrambling off the blonde.
I grab the standing floor lamp and fling it to the ground.
“I don’t know, Peter. What the hell are you doing you piece of shit?” I scream. The mirror comes down next. I notice the girl creeping out of bed. “Get the fuck out of my apartment!” I shriek. I wish I had something to throw at her. She bolts like a startled deer.
“Ashely, you need to calm down,” Peter stammers.
“You were fucking another woman. In. Our. Bed. Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” I grab a drawer from the dresser and tip its contents out the open window. Shirts flutter down ten stories before landing on the soggy street. I grab another drawer and repeat.
“Ashley! Stop that right now,” Peter tries to grab me but I throw an empty drawer at his legs.
“Get the fuck out!” I scream. I don’t care if the whole neighborhood can hear me. Peter can see the crazy in my eyes. He nods, grabs a pair of pants off the floor and runs out of the bedroom. I hear the apartment door open and slam closed. He’s probably going to find that blonde bitch.
I stand alone in the middle of my rage tornado. A numbness settles over me as I gingerly pick up the broken glass. I don’t realize I’m crying until I make an audible sob.
There’s a knock at the door. I assume it’s Peter coming to beg forgiveness. Fat chance. With mascara running down my cheeks, I open the door. It’s not Peter.
It’s a police officer.
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