Chapter Two: Ice Cold Reality Pt 2 - Gabriella

“Well, that was fun,” I say nonchalantly.

Mitchell gets off the bed, still clutching that pillow for dear life – I’ll need a new one now – as he walks over to me with pleading eyes. “Look, can we just talk about this? I had a weak moment, but she didn’t mean anything to me, I swear,” he says desperately.

“Do I have the word ‘stupid’ tattooed on my forehead?” I ask in a duh tone.

His expression suddenly changes to one of anger, and I’m intrigued to see where this is going. “Fine, so it wasn’t a one-time thing, but can you fucking blame me? You give me nothing, it’s like you just don’t fucking care about me anymore and the bedroom was getting boring, you don’t do anything fun. I needed a real woman who could satisfy my needs and treat me and respect me like a real man. You didn’t even give a shit!” He screams.

“You’re right, I don’t fucking care. I stopped fucking caring when you sat on your ass every day letting me go to work to support us both. You play your videos – which I bought you by the way – and screw my neighbour while I pay the bills, do the cooking AND the cleaning. What the fuck are you contributing? And sex? I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve made me come in the two years we’ve been together, so why the fuck would I bother putting in a hundred per cent effort in the bedroom to someone who is giving me fucking nothing. You’re a lazy, waste of fucking space who wants to be treated like the big man when he is giving toddler energy. I don’t need to waste my time or money on a manchild who can’t even clean up after himself. I am so happy that I can finally be done with your broke ass,” I say ecstatically as I grab him by the ear grabbing his shirt and pants off the floor as I drag him downstairs.

“Ow! Let go of my fucking ear Gabbie!” He cries.

“And for the millionth time, don’t fucking call me Gabbie!” I shout as I open the door and shove him out, tossing his pants and shirt at him, “Take these. I don’t need the cops showing up because you got arrested for public indecency. As for your wallet and phone, I will leave it in a box by the door for you to collect,” I say smugly.

“What about the rest of my fucking stuff?!” He screams.

“Well, as I see it, I bought everything you own, so technically that makes it my stuff, so… cya!” I cheer as I slam the door and lock it.

Mitchell proceeds to pound against the door and screaming obscenities at me, but I just don’t fucking care. I slump against the door and catch my breath as the adrenaline rushes through my system, and finally, when the realisation that I’ve finally gotten this freeloader out of my life and out of my loft, I break out in dance. I dance and jump around squealing with joy as 2 years of stress rolls off me. Ding dong the bitch is fucking dead!

*****

After a while Mitchell gave up pounding on my door, probably realising I wasn’t going to give his cheating ass another minute of my time. Instead of bothering with him, I’m now on glass of wine number two – red, of course – and listening to the very appropriate Women Don’t Owe You Shit by the singer Aston.

“You’re at the bottom, I’m high like matriarch. You’re hot and bothered when I don’t give a fuck. No explanation, no I don’t have to talk. I don’t like you that much, so I’m cutting you off!” I sing at the top of my lungs, taking a break to take a swig of my drink.

I continue to sing along to what I'm dubbing, The Ultimate Breakup Playlist as I throw all my bedsheets into a trash bag ready to take out with this week's garbage. Fortunately, I have other sheets, so I’ll be fine. I walk over and pick up a pair of scissors off my little desk just as my phone rings.

I reach over, grab it and answer, “Bad Bitch Resident, Queen Bitch speaking,” I say as I walk over to the little rack of clothes that I call a wardrobe.

“That doesn’t sound like someone who left work early due to a migraine,” chuckles my best friend Derrick.

“Don’t worry, my skull is still the site of an archaeological excavation, but I won’t let it bring down my mood.”

He chuckles some more, “You have gossip, I can tell. What has you in such a delightful mood?” He asks eagerly.

“I kicked Mitchell out. He is finally out of my house and out of my life,” I proudly announce, quickly turning the music down.

“WHAT?! You finally kicked out that loser whose face looks like an old man’s scrotum and didn’t call to tell me? Bitch! What the fuck?” He screams.

I chuckle, “Sorry, I’ve been excitedly clearing out all his shit. I would have called you with the good news eventually.”

“Are you okay? Like, what happened? Girl, I need that tea because I can tell it is piping hot,” he says enthusiastically.

“Well, I came home and found him and my neighbour fucking on my bed, so I doused them with ice water and kicked them out. I’m not as cut up as you’d think I’d be, but I can’t say the same about his clothes,” I say malevolently while cutting through Mitchell’s favourite shirt. Fuck him. I bought it, I can do what I want with it.

I hear silence on the other end and pre-emptively pull the phone away from my ear just in time for Derrick to start screaming through my phone. Do I know the man, or do I know the man?

“YOU WENT ICEBERG FROM THE TITANIC ON YOUR CHEATING BOYFRIEND AND DIDN’T THINK TO CALL ME?!” He screams.

What follows is some incoherent screeching, so I put the phone down as I leisurely cut up more of Mitchell’s clothes and toss them into garbage bags. I’m just about to cut up his third shirt when the vindictive fog lifts from my brain and I realise what the fuck I’m doing. Sure, demolishing his stuff is feeding my need for revenge, but it doesn’t do me or anyone else any good. These are all good items of clothing. I know because I paid for them and cleaned them. He sure as hell doesn’t deserve them, but I can think of homeless people and shelters all over the place that definitely do. I put the scissors back on my desk and separate the items I already cut up – I can use them as cleaning rags – and place everything else in bags. I’ll wash everything and then donate it to those who need it more, that way all the money I spent doesn't go to waste and these good clothes get to benefit people who need it.

“Hello? HELLO?! GABRIELLA JONES!” Derrick screams.

I quickly race over and pick up the phone, “I’m here, I’m here! Don’t get your tucking panties in a twist. Look, you are more than welcome to come over and indulge in some snacks and booze with me and I will fill you in on everything, okay?” I calmly offer.

“Very well. I’ll let Wyatt know I’m going to your place. I should be there in fifteen.”

“Great! I’ll have a glass of wine waiting for you,” I say chipperly and then hang up.

I look around at the mess I made, and quickly fix it up and quickly change the sheets on my bed. It’s bad enough the world is full of people who need to go to places like Good Will for bedding, but I won’t let them get crusty sheets still stinking of my now exes philandering. They deserve better than that, so I'll give them a thorough clean before donating them along with the clothes.