I didn’t ask to put down Italy, and I didn’t ask to be sent there. I did what Ihad to do.I was put in a horrible corner, and I’ve done nothing wrong.
I gave all I had to keep the castle, too.
To further compound my screwed-up life, I get rejection emails from every one of the publications I sent my manuscript to. That is not the worst of it. My credit card is maxed out, and I’m financially ruined.
I will need to get a job soon, any job. I feel like a complete loser, and I do all I can to not cry every few hours alone in bed.
The travel publication company I worked for owes me a month of pay, but I don’t know when that will arrive. Asking my boss for it is a terrifying concept.
My harsh email to her when I quit was likely a bad move.
Another…
Last but not least, the Italian rental car company just emailed, informing me I owe thousands of dollars.
I crawl further into my dark hole, and I feel broken. I cannot see a way out. I’ve never had trouble breathing, but now I find myself short of breath. It’s likely anxiety, and I tell myself to not take much on.
To also stop being perky, light, and positive. Life is not a good or safe place. It does not look after you, and it is full of traps and holes.
I decide my one true love of writing is a waste of time. I am clearly a bad writer, and I am close to giving up on it, forever.
I have trouble getting out of bed during the day, and even Parker is worried about me.
I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong. I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve always been positive, and I’ve helped build people up. I’m the sunshine girl.
Was her… but now I’m down… broken… and I’ve got nothing left.
As I make yet another herbal tea with my head down, Parker pulls me aside, and she gives me a hard time about Dante.
“Look, I get it!” she says, ending her rant. “But we’ve all made mistakes. It’s not as if he’s fucked anyone else, right?”
I see red, and the idea makes me sick.
“And have you looked about? The men in our sphere are not much to write home about,” she asks with her mom brow.
I sigh. She is not wrong about the last part. Yesterday, when I walked to the supermarket, I kept my eyes open. Not one guy in a hundred came close.
Heck, maybe she’s right, and maybe he’s not so bad.
But, NO!No way!
Images of him flash hard and fast. Yelling at me, calling me a stupid girl, are burnt into my soul.
Telling meI can’t recognize my own love?That was way out of line, and it still is. It always will be!
I head away with my tea, and I can’t go back there. Dante does not respect me, and he likely never will… End of story.
I decide to try a few, cheap, last-ditch things, and I send the draft of my novel to Dad in Virginia. Better he sees it, rather than another publisher who will ignore it or tell me it’s no good.
I have not read the ending since writing it at the airport either. I still have no clue what I wrote. I likely botched it, and that’s an extra reason no one likes the thing.
I’m down to three hundred in cash I kept hidden in a book in my room. That will buy me another two weeks of food, and thank heck, I pay our affordable rent in advance.
Depressed,during week two of being home, Parker pulls me aside, again. We talk on the roof, and she tells me that I should demand my old employer redact my name from the previous article. Then, publish my second positive article. She also says I should request an apology.
Online and in public!
“There is no way in hell they will!” I blurt, amazed.
