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Page 50 of Break Me Beautifully

"What?" he asks.

"I break beautiful things,"I quote him lyrically. I have nothing else to say. I think he must, but he's gone stiff and silent. His jaw flexes like he's biting his tongue. I turn on my heel, heading out the door with my chin held high. I'm a vision of composure. impervious to harm.

I make it outside before the first tear falls. I keep walking as fast as I can, my forearm coming up to wash away evidence of my crying. As I march down the sidewalk without any sense of direction, any idea where I want to go, I run through clip after clip in my head. Marshall kissing me. Marshall telling me he loves me. Marshall telling me all he suffered.

Idiot. You're an idiot.

There's a sick sensation in my middle. I hug myself, searching for the physical lumps or blades that I swear are slicing me up. They tricked me; Marshall, Bradford, even Min They all convinced me this was my big chance.

What would they do with my art?

How would they switch out the dirty money from the clean?

Acid bubbles up my throat. I clap a hand over my mouth, afraid I'll be sick.What if everything I created lets them do more awful things.Drugs, guns. I didn't know for sure, but I had a vivid imagination. The mafia was never the good guys.

My hands tremble, and even if I form them into fists, they still shake. A word swims from the gloomy depths until its plastered in the forefront of my conscious.Revenge.It's like holding a hot coal in my mouth.I told him I never felt angry enough to consider getting revenge on anyone.

My emotions fuel my legs and let me ignore how long I walk. When the front of my squat studio on its quaint yet dirty street corner comes into view, I know I traveled miles on foot. The soreness in my muscles is nothing compared to the rage still building in my blood.

He tricked me.

He never cared.

It was all lies.

The key's teeth cut into my palm. I jam it into the door, letting myself in to the studio. I thought it was a kind gesture. God, I was so blind.

Sunlight sprinkles in through the ceiling window. Multiple scents slam into my nose; paint, cinnamon, sex. It's a feast for the senses.

"You bastard," I whisper to the empty air, to the ghost of him that haunts this place and my whole damn body. He's inside of me and I want him out. I'm at war with myself. I have an urge to destroy, and a conscious to know better. Lava surges through my veins, creatingrageat a mind-boggling rate. The first tin of brushes flies from my fist, crashing into the far wall.

The chaotic noise is intoxicating. It feeds my desire to hurt him the way he hurt me. The next thing I throw is a tin of watercolors. Easels are kicked to the floor, the metal frames clattering loud enough to echo on the walls. Every one of them is naked ... except for one.

Marshall's painting sits alone. We left it here in our haste because neither of us knew what to do with it.

But now?

I have an idea.

It's the only source of brilliant color in the studio. It draws me in like a moth to a flame, eager to sacrifice the part of me Marshall had declared untainted. Did he always know he'd leave me with scars in my soul? Was his playing hero an act?

Leftover water stains the cement floor when I slap the cup off the tiny table. An old coffee cup that touched his lips goes next. There's no way to erase my memories of him.

My hair hangs in my eyes. I brush it away so I can have a clear view of his canvas. Panting furiously, I shift the keys in my grip. They'll be perfect for tearing his art apart. I cross the floor, my ears full of his whispered words, my heart contorting with every memory of our bodies pressing together in bliss.

I have to hate him.

I have to.

Without that feeling, revenge is impossible.

"Do it!" I scream out loud. "Do it, Leona! Just do it! He deserves it! Hurt him the way he hurt you!" My arm whips back, the teeth of the keys glinting in the sun beams. The canvas will split apart, each time I stab will release the tension in my guts, and it would be so simple.

The keys rattle when they hit the floor. I join them on my knees, head resting in my palms as I sob in frustration.I can't do it!No matter what he's done to me, I can't make myself destroy the painting he created.

All the energy melts from my muscles. I sit their limply, gazing at the mess I've made, wondering what I'm becoming. And, perhaps worse, what I'll never become.My dream of a successful art career is dead before it breathed. Maybe I'll quit entirely.It's an insanely tempting concept. I could, I could just stop.

Who would care?


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