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I felt an ache in my chest at the sound of them kissing.

I was beginning to force myself to admit that I wanted more from Logan. She was talking about him not having sex with her earlier, and I was so relieved. That had to mean something.

I mean, if he was fucking me all this time and not her, that had to mean he cared. At least a little, right?

But then he kissed her and that hope died as soon as it began to grow. She had started to moan by now and I could only squeeze my eyes shut. The only way she would stop is if he gave into her wishes.

He was going to fuck her less than four feet away from me. And I was stuck hiding in a closet. What does that say about me?

It was at moments like this that I would shut down and push away my feelings. Basically the opposite of what my therapist would advise.

According to her, when people go through traumatic events, their brain would work to avoid anything relating to that trauma at all costs. Hence the shutting down. It had become easy for me over the years.

Stopping my emotions, I only just realized that when in genuine emotional pain, it was a thousand times harder to stop.

I was stupid enough to let him see parts of me no one ever knew existed. And now it was that much harder to hide them again.

I couldn't hear much on his part but she was moaning and yelling his name the whole time. That's when I felt the tears. And now you're crying. When was the last time you let yourself get this weak, Yaz?

I furiously wipe them from my face and put my hands on either side of the wall. He doesn't want you. No one will ever want you. Accept that and move on.

He started chanting her name and I wondered how much longer I'd have to endure this. The longer they went on, the more my negative thoughts appeared.

You think you'll get married, have kids? Forget it. None of those men stayed, did they? All you are is a good fuck every now and then.

That's all you'll ever be.

I had to cover my mouth to hide the sob crawling up my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut and put my hands over my ears.

You'll die alone, no children, no love, and no happiness. Yet here you are pinning over a man who locks you in a closet and fucks his wife in the same space as you.

If that doesn't show you how little you're worth, than what does?

I crouched down to my knees and wrapped my arm around my legs, rocking myself back and forth. Please God, just make them go away.

Then I remembered.

God had forgotten about me a long time ago. He seemed to never be listening when I needed Him.

Never listening when I screaming for someone to save me all those years ago.

I was alone.

And this time, I couldn't find piece in the loneliness. Only pain. Maybe I was overreacting, maybe I should've just sucked it up and bear through the sounds.

But I knew how I felt.

This hurt. And it was my fault for hoping.

Hoping that he could feel something for me.

So stupid.

Married men don't leave their wives for the bitch they're fucking. Just listen to them together. He loves her, he doesn't even respect you. You think he'd hide her in a closet and fuck you like that?

Never.

She'll always be better than you.

She'll always win.

~*~

I'd fallen asleep when the door finally opened. I opened my eyes to find a short, bald guy looking at me like I was a gift for him. I stood up and adjusted my dress.

"Hey, there darlin', ahem, uh—" He attempted to fix his attire, I ignore him and walk out of the closet.

His office was a mess, her panties even lying on the floor. But they were no longer here. I walked out of the room and paused when I noticed only the cleaners here. Everyone left.

Everyone.

Nobody cared. Not even him.

I felt the tears again but blinked them away. Just get home and everything will be better.

I find my purse in a box on the ground along with a bunch of other things people left behund. I pick it up and walk out of the club, my dignity remaining there. I had no idea how to get that back.

I got into my car and drove home. My heart was pounding in anxiousness as I got closer to home, I knew exactly what I was going to do.

In only fifteen minutes, I reached my house. I silently walked up the steps, into my bathroom.

I always kept a razor blade, just in case. It had been years since I self harmed. But whatever strength I had built had been lost as I swiped the blade across my thigh. I welcomed the pain as I normally did, and let it numb what I was really feeling.

I was so young when I started, I cut up my wrists and my father found out. But after that incident, I started cutting my thighs and no one ever knew. They healed up completely within a year and I had gotten better by then. That's was nearly a decade ago.

And since then, I never had those negative thoughts.

Until now.

I paused when I saw that half of my left thigh was covered in cuts. It was always hard to stop. They were thin, just deep enough to bleed. Scattered and close together, the cuts looked scary almost. It was time to stop.

I grabbed the first aid kit and applied healing ointment before wrapping my thigh up with gauze. Some of the cuts had already begun to bleed through the thin layer, so I wrapped it some more.

When I was finished, I changed out of my clothes and put on some shorts with a tank top.

I used my makeup wipes and avoided looking in my reflection. When I felt like the make up was gone, I looked up at my face to make sure it was clean. But immediately looked away afterwards and walked to my bed.

I picked up my phone to call my dad. He didn't answer, of course, so I left him a message. "Father, I'm not feeling well. I'll have to call out for the rest of the week." I hang up and put the phone down.

I lay on my back and try to sleep.

🎉

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