my rose satin dress, my heart races with excitement and nerves. Tonight, at prom, Cole and I are supposed to make our relationship official. It’s a turning point, a moment I’ve longed for despite the recent rough patch between us.
My father, standing at the foot of the stairs, looks at me with so much pride and a little sorrow. I know he wishes my mom was there too.
“My plum fairy, all grown up,” he says, his eyes misting over. “I wish I could be there to keep an eye on that boy.”
Laughing it off, I reassure him about the boy’s gentlemanly behavior. “You don’t need to threaten him with your shotgun, Dad,” I say with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll introduce him to you soon.” I was worried because I promised to stay away from his team, and I ended up with his star player.
Reluctantly, he lets go, but not without making me promise to tell him everything tomorrow. I agree; my mind already at the prom, envisioning the night ahead.
Arriving at the venue, my stomach twists into knots. The grandeur of the ballroom looms before me, its lights twinkling like stars. I step out of the car; the crowd is already inside. And then, there he is, standing on the steps, his back to me.
Exiting the car, heart racing, our eyes lock as he turns. For a fleeting moment, warmth seems to flicker in his gaze before it hardens into something cruel and mocking.
“You really believed I was taking you?” Cole laughs, the sound echoing through the night, chilling me to the bone. “You’re so gullible, Eva.”
Frozen in place, I watch as he turns, walking back up the stairs. Jenny, waiting at the top, loops her arm through his. She glances over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine with a sinister glee. “She’s all yours,” she calls out to the darkness.
An icy shiver runs down my spine as Derek emerges from the shadows, a broken beer bottle in his hand. His eyes are wild, predatory. “Run,” he snarls, and I feel pure terror.
Sprinting into the woods, I can hear Derek right behind me. Suddenly, my foot catches on a tree root, sending me tumbling to the ground. Before I can fully turn around, he is on top of me, his hand snaking under my dress and the sharp edge of the bottle pressing menacingly against my neck. “Stop, please,” I beg, my voice a desperate whisper.
“Come on, babe, you like it rough, so let’s play,” he growls, his breath hot on my ear.
Nausea overwhelms me, but I refuse to be a victim. In a surge of adrenaline, I grab the bottle, ignoring the pain as it cuts into my palm. I swing it at him, managing to break free.
My heart races as I run, my vision blurred by tears. I don’t stop, not even when I reach Memory Bridge. The pain in my hand is unbearable, my fingers numb and useless. The despair crashes over me like a tidal wave, the realization that my dreams, my hopes, everything is shattered.
Climbing over the railing, the churning waters below draw a sob from my lips. Teetering on the edge, the world falls silent, and I let go, my body plummeting into the cold, dark depths.
The moment my body breaks the surface of the freezing water, I wake with a loud gasp, shirt drenched in sweat, hair plastered to my forehead, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to me.
It’s been ages since such vivid, suffocating dreams have tormented me. I know it’s because of his presence in my room last night.
A long shower follows, so prolonged I worry about leaving no hot water for the others. Yet, a persistent cold clings to me, reminiscent of hitting a freezing river, refusing to be shaken off.
Fifteen minutes later, I give up, the chill seeping into my bones. Dressing more warmly than usual seems like the only recourse.
Settling into my room, I try to lose myself in my studies. I’m ahead in all my subjects, the side effect of being a borderline recluse with anxiety issues. I reach for Christine de Pizan’s poetry; her words are usually a comfort. Today, even her “Ballad XIX” feels hollow.
“Lover I feel such sorrow now you go,
That I do not know if I can bear it.
My sweet secret love without you, oh,
How can I live?”
I can’t help but snort, closing the book abruptly. “You’ll live just fine, Christine,” I mutter to myself, a bitter edge to my words. We all do, one way or another.
The sound of life from the kitchen beckons me, and I find Poppy there, her smile a welcome sight. “Come, I’m making breakfast,” she says, her voice light and inviting.
Nessa joins us soon after, and we fall into easy conversation, a brief respite from my internal turmoil.
Our chatter is interrupted by an envelope being slipped under the door.
Poppy opens it and reads it aloud with a hint of surprise in her voice. “It’s for a rage room, booked for lunchtime. Can you believe it?”
I look at the voucher in her hand, feeling a mix of apprehension and curiosity. “A rage room?” I ask, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.
“Yeah,” Poppy says, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “It’s a place where you can smash stuff to let out your frustrations. No consequences, no judgments. Just pure cathartic destruction.”
Nessa chimes in with a grin, “Smashing stuff for free? Count me in! It would be nice to do that without being arrested for once.”
I looked at her with an arched eyebrow. I really need to know more about our beautiful criminal.
Hesitation marks my response to the idea of releasing bottled-up emotions in such a raw, physical way. “I’m not sure…” I murmur, the words catching in my throat.
Poppy turns to me, her expression softening. “It could be good for you. A way to let out everything you’ve been holding back. You don’t have to, but I think it might help.”
Biting my lip, I consider her words. The thought of going to a rage room feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking into the abyss of my own anger and pain.
Deep down, there’s a worry that once this box of emotions is opened, it might not be possible to close it again. The fear of losing control looms over me.
Poppy places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You won’t be alone. We’ll be right there with you. And sometimes, opening that box is the first step to healing. We’re here for you, no matter what,” she says as if she can read my thoughts.
Her words resonate with me, offering a sliver of courage. The idea of facing my demons with Poppy and Nessa by my side gives me a sense of solidarity I didn’t realize I needed.
“Okay,” I say, a shaky resolve in my voice. “Let’s do it. Let’s smash some stuff.”
Poppy beams, her enthusiasm infectious. “That’s the spirit! It’s going to be… liberating, you’ll see.”
As we prepare to leave for the rage room, I’m not sure how I feel. This could be the release I need, a way to confront the chaos inside me in a place where it’s safe to let go. Maybe it’s exactly what I need to start putting the pieces of myself back together.
*****
I go with the flow, silently praying that I won’t break. I shouldn’t; I’m strong. Max helped me regain my power. Yesterday’s confrontation with Cole stands as proof. I hurt him; I made a six-three athlete bleed. Facing a rage room should be within reach, considering the trials I already faced.
At least, I think so until we walk into the room where the three men are already waiting. Ethan, Liam, and the devil himself… Cole.
I feel some satisfaction at the bruise on his nose spreading under his eyes, knowing that if I didn’t manage to hurt him emotionally and destroy him mentally, I at least caused some physical damage, no matter how small.
My instincts tell me to turn around and leave, but my pride, that stubborn part of me, tells me to stay and stand my ground, to not flee from a moment in which he is the intruder, not me.
Poppy and Nessa throw me a worried glance, and I hate that their fun is dimmed because of me.
So I force a smile at them. I’m not sure they buy it, but they relax, and I concentrate on Ted, the facilitator, as he explains the rules, but honestly, all I want right now is to grab that metal bat closest to me and smash whatever is in my way, Cole included.
Once he finishes, I feel like the anger inside me is a living, breathing entity as I stand in the rage room, bat in hand. I feel it pulsing through my veins, a relentless tide urging me to unleash the fury that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. And when my eyes land on a discarded TV, the perfect target for my pent-up rage, I don’t hold back.
With each swing of the bat, the glass shatters, sending shards flying like my shattered dreams. The cathartic sound of destruction is music to my ears, a symphony of my pain and betrayal. The more I hit, the more I feel the tight band of self-control starting to erode, and finally, it snaps.
A primal scream escapes my lips, a sound so raw and filled with anguish that it doesn’t sound human. It’s the cry of a wounded soul, a heart that’s been torn apart and left to bleed. I hate that he is always here, invading my space, my thoughts, my life. I hate that I ever trusted him, that I loved him, and most of all, I hate that a part of me still does. I hate the “what-ifs” and the “could have beens,” and above all, I hate myself for ever believing in a happy ending.
Suddenly, he is beside me, his presence like a dark cloud looming over my storm of emotions. His face shows concern, but how dare he? How dare he look at me with worry when he’s the root of all my pain?
“Angel,” he murmurs, and the sound of that nickname, a remnant of a love that’s long turned sour, ignites a fury inside me.
“Don’t touch me!” I snarl, my voice laced with venom. “Do not touch me ever again!”
He growls, a sound so low and primal that it sends involuntary shivers down my spine. “I’ll touch you if—”
I start swinging again, my movements chaotic driven, by my fury and despair. The bat slices through the air, a physical manifestation of my desire to sever all ties with him, to break free from the chains of our past.
With each strike, I’m not only breaking objects; I’m shattering the remnants of a love that once consumed me, a love that turned into a nightmare. This room, these broken pieces, they’re a testament to my journey—a journey of pain, of loss, and of a strength I never knew I had.
And as I stand there amid the wreckage of my own making, I realize that this is more than a release of anger. It’s a declaration of my independence, a statement that I will no longer be defined by the shadows of my past. I am Eva, not Cole’s “Angel,” and I am reclaiming my story, one swing of the bat at a time.
As the last vestiges of my rage dissolve into the air, punctuated by the sound of my bat clattering to the ground, I find myself sinking to my knees. The adrenaline leaves my body as quickly as it came, replaced by an overwhelming weariness. I start crying, the tears coming in a torrent I can’t control. Full, ugly sobs rack my body, the kind that comes from a place deep within, where all the pain and hurt have been festering, untouched and unacknowledged.
My vision blurs, the world around me dissolving into a watery haze. The sobs choke me, and it feels like I’m expelling every shard of pain and betrayal that has lodged itself in my heart over the past year. I can barely register the surrounding commotion, the sounds distant and muffled. I’m a crumpled ball on the floor, consumed by my own storm of grief.
Suddenly, I feel strong arms lifting me up, cradling me with a gentleness that feels alien yet desperately needed. “Shh, I got you,” a warm British accent soothes, and in my state of vulnerability, those words are a lifeline.
I allow myself to relax into Liam’s embrace, his presence a stark contrast to the chaos that has unfolded. In his arms, I find a strange sense of safety, a calm amid the storm that has been my life. His hold is secure, yet careful, as if he’s afraid of hurting me further.
He sets me on the leather back seat of his car, and Nessa settles beside me. Liam talks, but Nessa doesn’t answer. She focuses on me, and by the time we reach the parking lot of our building, the tears have subsided, and so has the anger, replaced by such bone-deep exhaustion and mortification at what they all witnessed that I can barely breathe.
God, they must think I’m completely unhinged, I think with a wince. They wouldn’t be completely wrong, though, would they?
I open the door to get out, but as Nessa starts to follow me, I turn toward her.
“Can I have a little time alone, please?” I know it’s unfair of me to ask; it’s her space as much as it is mine.
She appears conflicted, and it’s rare to see that version of Nessa. I’m so used to the abrasive, comical side of her.
“You have no reason to be ashamed,” she says gently, and it makes my eyes water again. I can’t deal with any sentimentality right now, not when the control over my feelings is still so feeble.
“I know, I just need…”
She looks at me pensively before turning toward Liam, who is waiting in his car. She sighs, turning toward me again. “Okay, I need to go buy something anyway, but I’ll be back soon, and I’m not far. Call if you need me even in two minutes.”
A sincere smile breaks across my face, reflecting my love for my girls. After a quick, affectionate hug, I go upstairs for a hot shower. There, eyes closed, the focus shifts to the meditation techniques learned in therapy. I take deep, slow breaths as I concentrate on how the water hits my skin, how it feels when it slides down my arms, my back, and my legs to end on the porcelain floor. After a few minutes, I feel like all the emotions are back in the box, and I do feel lighter somehow.
Maybe that breakdown was not completely crazy after all. Maybe I truly needed it.
Settling on the sofa with a cup of tea and Anne of Green Gables, my comfort reading is cut short by Poppy’s return, bringing with it a wave of embarrassment for spoiling her fun.
Addressing her concern and finding the right words to apologize seems daunting. I need to start somewhere, but then Nessa appears, back to being herself—the larger-than-life heart of the party, carrying alcohol that both Poppy and I are surprised Liam acquired for her.
Liam is the perfect image of stoicism, and I see what’s simmering under the surface. It’s one of my gifts. I’ve always been invisible before Cole set his eyes on me, and this invisibility allowed me to see how people reacted to each other; it gave me a certain sixth sense… Not that it really helped me to prevent my own drama, but it does allow me to see the potential chaos that will be Nessa and Liam and the way they look at each other. There will be something there, and I’m not sure if it will be her greatest love or her hardest fall, but I’ll be there for her like she’s here for me now.
The invisibility never bothered me, though, because I had my violin, which was all that mattered. I may have been invisible to people around, but when I was playing in a concert hall, all eyes were on me, people holding their breath as I played and letting the beautiful sound of emotions come out from the magical piece of wood in my hands.
“Ladies,” Nessa announces, “it’s time to get shit-faced and spill secrets.” She places the bag on the counter, extracting bottles.
And I agree, despite what we vowed at the start of the year, it’s not working. We are close now; we know each other, and the past won’t change how I see my girls.
I watch Nessa prepare the cocktails, and the amount of alcohol she’s using is staggering, but I won’t complain because I suspect I’ll need that much to talk about Cole.
Nessa comes with the cocktails, and I take a sip as she sits down. I wince as the alcohol goes down my throat. Jesus, I could light the world on fire with that.
Nessa downs her glass in one go and exhales audibly. “Alright, I’ll kick things off,” she declares, pouring herself another and leaning back with a mischievous grin. “Bet you didn’t know you’ve been living with a deaf girl, did you?”
Deaf? I look at her with shock, and suddenly, it all clicks together. Lord, I’ve been so blind! We listen to her story, and it’s humbling, but I also feel a kinship I didn’t expect to find. She’s lost something important, and I’ve lost my ability to use my hand with the same dexterity as before, losing my whole life’s purpose in the process. This admission helps so much more than anything in the world, and I go next.
Delving into the full story feels overwhelming. I feel too fragile inside after the nightmare and the breakdown, but I tell them more than I’ve told anyone other than Max.
Clearing my throat, a determined yet shaky voice emerges. “Cole Westbrook and I were… from different circles in high school. He was the star athlete and I, the music geek. Our paths never really crossed until—” I take a sip of my drink, hoping to numb my feelings a little more.
Poppy reaches for my hand and squeezes it. This gesture of comfort is all the encouragement I need to keep going.
Turning my left hand to reveal the blunt scar across my palm, the story unfolds further. “I had a full scholarship to Julliard, then the accident happened.” I almost snort when saying the word. It was no accident; it was a planned destruction.
“It cut the nerves in my left hand,” I continue, and it’s far more difficult than I first thought. “And Cole… he played a part in it, whether he meant to or not. It’s a wound that never quite healed, and seeing him again, it’s like ripping off a bandage that was barely holding everything together. I can’t play the violin like before. Julliard, my dream, it’s gone. I spent a year in rehab trying to fix the damage, trying to figure out a new unplanned future, and this is why I’m starting one year late. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.” I finish my drink in one go and reach for the pitcher to fill my glass again.
It’s Poppy’s turn, and she tells us about her family’s descent to hell and how Ethan’s family played a significant part in it. Her strength is as humbling as Nessa’s is. These girls can possibly understand me in ways nobody else can, and I’m thankful that life, for once, seems to be on my side.
Leaning back in my seat, I smile; our fractured souls find solace in shared pain and unspoken understanding, forging a bond that promises not just survival but the emergence of an unbreakable sisterhood.
