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*** Karis' POV***

Picking up broken pieces is hard. Trying desperately to put them back together is harder still. The hardest of all tasks is remembering why you deserve to be put back together at all.

I have never been one to shy away from responsibility. It is easy to blame myself. I am nothing if not self-condemning.

Looking around my dark house, I see the perfection. Aesthetically, everything is symmetrical, complimenting; there is a place for each item. Nothing is amiss.

The sight sickens me. My behavior mimics that of Christopher. My former husband has imprinted on me in places that I have not even noticed. The thought makes me want to set the house ablaze, maybe with myself still inside.

The first crash is satisfying. As the vase collides with the hard wood floors, the deep thud is applauded by glittering glass shards that dance across the wooden planks.

My hands fly out in front of me, pushing the towering book shelf towards the tile floor. Books bounce across the marble floors as the shelves splinter with deafening crackles that send shivers down my spine. A cackle rises from my throat, filling the air with menace.

As pictures fly away from their anchors on the walls, curtains gracefully puddle beneath their swinging rods. The destruction releases pent up anger from my heaving chest and smirking lips. I walk through my home looking for anything to satisfy my need for imperfection.

When my phone rings, I answer it before watching it bounce from the wall. The thudding of the protective case creates a beautiful symphony to match the currents rampaging through my veins.

When the television airs a football commercial, it volunteers to be my next victim. Grabbing the meat mallet from the kitchen, I rush towards the thing that I find particularly disturbing. My hand swings the mallet back, I smile when the screen goes black at the point of contact.

Abusing the screen, I hit the plastic casing. The crackle of breaking plastic makes me smile inside. I repeatedly batter the rectangle with blunt force, enjoying as it no longer advertises my once favorite sport.

All those fucking football games did was come between me and Christopher. He facilitated parties and family get togethers around the biggest games. Drinking, yelling and hitting furniture over missed calls marks every memory, vividly, with hatred.

Concerts, basketball, baseball and even golf during off seasons, they all remind me of every minute I transformed myself to fit into my husband's world instead of creating a world that we both enjoyed.

Ballets, concerts, my family gatherings, those things were my wishes; my desires. Infrequently, Christopher would compromise, allowing us to show up to a gathering that didn't include his friends or his family. Even eating out required an extensive run down of drink specials and access to games. If the two were not offered we simply went where they were or did not go out at all.

Every fucking day was for Christopher, about Christopher. I was never a consideration in our marriage. He is a selfish prick. I allowed him to be. I enabled it. I am at fault.

Screaming, I sink to my knees in the large pile of rubble. Every waking moment was another opportunity for a great time, for Christopher. I wish I could get a refund on my time. I know exactly what I would do.

I wouldn't pursue Christopher. I wouldn't change myself, lose myself, for someone so completely undeserving. I would pour into myself, follow my dreams.

How did it get to this? How did I become someone so opposite of who I was? How did I let myself love someone to the point of hating myself?

The rage, that boils inside of me, is far from healthy. Anger, aggression and pure loathing add fuel to my already roaring fire. The start throwing whatever my hands touch, finding nothing but comfort as my belongings fly through the air to make contact with my walls.

The fit goes on for what seems like hours. The rubble I'm left with will take so long to clean up, remove. I will spend countless amounts of money to replace what I have destroyed. I couldn't give a fuck less.

Blissfully, I sit in the debris. Staring at each item, I pick the pieces up, scattering them in a circle around me. When I look down, I burst into laughter. I look like a human sacrifice in a circle of worldly materials. The laughter is chased by tears.

So many tears flow, I don't know where they stem from. It could be anger. It could be pain. I don't know. I just let them roll down my cheeks.

Eventually, all the emotions become so completely draining. I just sit there staring at absolutely everything and nothing at once. The remnants of everything I have collected lay at my feet.

The sun that once filtered through my hanging curtains, says goodnight. Instead, the moonlight shines dimly through the blinds that still stand in place. Darkness surrounds me. I should get up to turn on a light. I don't want to. I just don't fucking care.

My blank stare focuses on the empty wall where the television hung hours ago. I don't know if I will replace it. Casting so much blame on the inanimate object is unfair. That doesn't change the simple fact that it caused so many distant moments between me and my husband. Funny how things that were meant to entertain could be so destructive.

Much like the television, alcohol has the same effect on me. I stand up, reaching into the cabinet for the best bottle of vodka I can find. The smell makes me nauseous as I open the cap. Good. It should do well with the rolling anxiety.

I pour the first tumbler over ice, splashing cranberry over the top. It's pretty. The deep red liquid washes over the clear liquor like blood over tears. Interesting. Without bothering to mix the brutal drink, I take the first sip. Seconds later, I refill my small glass.

Heartburn rushes through my chest. I groan. I know where this is headed. The fact that I pour the third glass is a testament to the lack of fucks I have to give.

A series of hiccups and one enormous belch later, I am stumbling towards the cabinet for the gin. My eyes are watering over the strength of my drink. The concoction burns like wet heat as it coats my already abused throat.

By the time that the room blurrs in and out of focus, I am to inebriated to care. The taste of the alcohol has disappeared long ago. Every single sip goes down like the soft lap of a delicious tongue. Easy, warm and alluring, the drink satiates my immediate desire.

Crunching beneath my side wakes me from my blank slumber. Turning over, determinedly remove the obstruction, I find my next position to be equally as uncomfortable. With great effort, I open my eyes to figure out why the hell my bed is so ridiculously unappealing.

My eyes go wide as I fight to understand what the fuck I did last night. The room is in disarray. All of my belongings are completely destroyed.

With a groan, I prop myself onto my knees. Instantly, I can feel how bad of an idea that was. My foot presses roughly against shards of mangled glass, plastic and splintered wood. I huff out my frustration as I search for a napkin to stop the red spilling from the gash across the top of my foot.

"Here." I look up, wishing to hell that I hadn't. I internally cringe at the sad brown eyes that greet me.

Rex lifts me up by my hand, wrapping his arm around my waist. I quietly accept his aid as he helps me limp to the intact dining table. Thank God it is in one piece. I can't say much for the rest of the space I see.

"Thanks." I prop my foot on the second chair as Rex softly positions my foot into a towel. He works carefully to remove the glass with a pair of tweezers. Wincing, I breathe slowly through he raw burn of the open wound.

"Wanna talk?" Rex wraps a bandage around my foot. He stalks off to the kitchen, making way too much noise for the blaring headache that thrums behind my temples.

"I don't know." I take the two ibuprofen and bottle of water from my friend before he takes a seat across from me.

"I really think we should. This place is a mess Karis. You don't look any better." Rex gestures towards the wake of my activities last night.

"I don't remember everything." I softly whisper out my admission. Judging by the state my house is in, I don't want to. Thank God for blackouts.

The strong smell of liquor is all I need to know that I made a lot of bad decisions last night. It's becoming a habit. Bad decisions seem to be all that I am capable of making.

"Tell you what, let's get you cleaned up. Then, we can go get coffee. My only demand is that we talk, Karis. Babe, I'm worried about you. We all are. I'm fucking struggling seeing you like this right now." Rex stands once again. His proffered hand is reluctantly accepted. I follow him into my room where he starts the shower.

I stumble as I make my way through a very shifty rinse off. The water only seems to activate the liquor in my system. Feeling overwhelming drunk, I latch onto the shower wall in order to stay vertical.

Nonjudgmental eyes meet my own. Rex quietly wraps a towel around me. He works quickly to dress me while conscientiously ignoring the fact that he is seeing my naked form.

No amount of embarrassment could redeem me in this moment. Giving up on retribution, I sit peacefully while Rex prepares me to leave the house. Once my clothes are in place, I accept yet another glass of water. This one dilutes the newly awakened drunkenness inside of my veins.

"Sorry." I whisper. There is not much more to say in this moment.

"Honey, you're human. Stop with the apologies. I just want to be here for you. I'm not here for any other motive. I just want to be your friend." Rex pats my arm as he leads me through the room.

I smile when he slips my glasses onto my face. The fact that he had concern enough to grab my transition lens was not lost on me. Rex is a true gem.

When Rex gets me tucked safely into his truck, I try not to cringe as the door shuts. It's the sound of the massive engine roaring to life that causes a very somber groan to leave my lips.

"I can save you from a lot. That hangover isn't one of them. Suck it up peanut butter cup. Some sins just have consequences." Rex pulls my visor down for me before focusing on the road.

As we drive through the quiet roads, I think through last night. Bits and pieces flash into my memory. The steady crash of furniture is one of the more vivid images that replays.

"I did that. The mess. I did it all." I say my confession slowly. I guess saying it out loud made me accept that I caused the demolition site in my home.

"I assumed. When I noticed that there was no forced entry, I kinda put two and two together. You shoulda called. I like a good dramatic episode." Rex quirks a brow at me before softly chuckling.

Figures he would make light of this fucked up situation. I hope I can see the humor in it one day. At the moment, I only see the repercussions in my very near future.

Rex stops the truck at a diner that I recognize. This is the place that I literally spilled my guts out the first night I met Vance. Fitting. I'm here to spill my guts once again.

As we walk into the cool diner, I steady myself to open the flood gates, take down the walls and allow someone else a glimpse into my convoluted thoughts. I surely hope that Rex has a lot of time on his hands. I have a lot to say.