Chapter 15: The Last Supper
266 words
I returned to the house one last time. The sky had opened up, a grey drizzle turning into a downpour that matched the bleakness of the subdivision. Richard’s car was in the driveway. He had beaten me back.
As I walked up the path, the front door swung open. Richard stood there, holding my two battered suitcases.
"I tried to be nice," he shouted over the rain. "But Tiffany is uncomfortable with your negative energy lingering here. She wants the guest room cleared out today."
He heaved the bags. They tumbled down the wet concrete steps, splashing into a puddle of oily run-off. My clothes, my memories, treated like garbage.
"Where am I supposed to go, Richard?" I asked, not because I didn't know, but because I wanted him to say it.
"Not my problem!" he yelled, wiping spit from his chin. "You wanted independence? You got it. Enjoy the homeless shelter!"
I stood there, rain matting my hair to my forehead, staring at the man who had wasted thirty years of my life. He expected me to cry. He expected me to beg.
Instead, I checked my watch.
At that exact second, beams of high-intensity LED light cut through the gloom. A sleek, black stretched limousine turned the corner, its engine purring with a deep, expensive rumble. It glided up the driveway, blocking Richard’s view of the street, massive and imposing.
The driver’s door opened. Richard’s mouth fell open, his eyes squinting against the blinding headlights. He looked at the car, then at me, confusion warring with his arrogance.
End of Chapter 15
