The wind ripped through the narrow streets of Brooklyn, slicing through Arianna's thin trench coat.
She hugged her arms tightly across her chest. She dragged her suitcase blindly down the empty sidewalk. The rhythmic clack of her heels against the concrete sounded hollow and pathetic in the dead of night. Brick buildings loomed on either side, their windows dark.
Her brain was a chaotic mess of flashing images. Nine years of memories were being violently rewritten.
She thought about every time they had been intimate. Right at the very end, when she reached for his face, Gregory would always turn his head. He would bury his face in her neck. He never kissed her on the lips when it mattered.
She had always believed him when he said it was a weird psychological quirk from his childhood. She used to rub his back and tell him it was okay.
Now, the truth hit her with sickening clarity.
He was saving his mouth. He was keeping his physical intimacy pure for Angie. He was using Arianna's body while keeping his soul loyal to another woman.
A wave of intense nausea hit her.
She stopped walking. She leaned her shoulder against a cold brick wall and gasped for air, her breath visible in the freezing night.
She shoved her hand into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up her pale face.
It was completely blank. No missed calls. No texts. Gregory hadn't even noticed she was supposed to be home tomorrow.
A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. She shoved the phone back into her pocket. Her eyes burned fiercely, but she refused to let a single tear fall.
She pushed off the wall and kept walking deeper into Brooklyn. Graffiti covered the metal shutters of closed shops. Trash skittered across the sidewalk in the wind.
At the end of a dimly lit block, a flickering neon sign read The Abyss. It was a rundown dive bar with peeling paint and a cracked front window patched with duct tape.
She pushed open the heavy, peeling wooden door.
The smell hit her instantly—stale beer, cheap bleach, and decades of cigarette smoke soaked into the walls. A blues song played from a crackling speaker, low and mournful. The lighting was dim and yellow, barely illuminating the scattered patrons hunched over their drinks.
She ignored the stares of the few rough-looking men at the bar. She dragged her suitcase all the way to the darkest corner and climbed onto a sticky high stool. The vinyl was torn, the stuffing poking through.
A bartender with sleeves of faded tattoos and a gray-streaked ponytail tossed a damp, greasy menu in front of her. His face was lined, impassive.
Arianna didn't look at it. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and slapped it flat on the wood.
"Tequila. The strongest you have," she ordered. Her voice was completely dead.
The bartender poured a full glass of cloudy, amber liquid and slid it across the bar. It left a wet trail on the scarred wood.
Arianna picked it up. She tilted her head back and swallowed the entire glass in one go.
The cheap alcohol felt like swallowing broken glass. It set her throat on fire.
She slammed the glass down and started coughing violently. The physical pain of the burn forced the tears out of her eyes. They spilled over her lashes, leaving hot, wet trails down her cheeks.
A man sitting two stools down slid over. He was stocky, unshaven, wearing a stained flannel shirt. He smelled like unwashed clothes and stale beer.
He reached out a dirty hand, aiming for her shoulder. "Rough night, sweetheart?"
Arianna's head snapped toward him. Her eyes were devoid of any human warmth.
She grabbed the empty beer bottle left by the previous customer. Without a second of hesitation, she smashed it down hard against the edge of the bar.
Glass shattered everywhere, glittering shards scattering across the floor.
She gripped the jagged neck of the bottle and pointed the sharp, broken edges directly at the man's throat.
The man froze. His eyes widened. He looked at her face and saw a woman who had absolutely nothing left to lose.
He raised both hands in surrender and stumbled backward into the shadows, nearly tripping over a stool.
The bartender walked over with a rag. He started wiping up the glass, his face still bored. "Don't start trouble in my bar, lady."
Arianna pulled three more twenties from her wallet and dropped them into the puddle of spilled beer.
"Keep pouring," she rasped.
She drank mechanically. Shot after shot. She needed the alcohol to kill the sound of Gregory's voice playing on a loop in her head.
Slowly, the edges of the room began to blur. The blues music faded into a dull roar. The yellow lights smeared into hazy halos.
She rested her forehead against the sticky wood of the bar. Her fingers traced meaningless circles in the condensation.
Suddenly, her stomach violently rebelled.
She shoved the stool back. It scraped loudly against the floor. She stumbled blindly toward the back hallway, nearly colliding with the wall, and shoved open the door to the women's restroom.
The fluorescent light flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. The room smelled of mildew and cheap air freshener.
She collapsed over the stained porcelain sink. She dry-heaved, her body shaking violently, but her stomach was completely empty. Nothing came up but bile and saliva.
She turned on the faucet. The water was freezing. She cupped her hands and splashed it directly into her face, gasping at the shock of the cold.
She gripped the edges of the sink and slowly lifted her head.
She stared at the woman in the mirror. Her mascara was smeared under her eyes in dark streaks. Her hair was a tangled mess, escaping from its careful twist. Her skin was blotchy, her lips dry. She looked pathetic.
She ripped a rough paper towel from the dispenser. She scrubbed her face so hard the skin turned angry and red.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. The despair in her chest hardened, freezing into a solid block of ice.
She stood up straight. She rolled her shoulders back, smoothing down her wrinkled coat. The weak, blindly devoted Arianna was dead.
She turned and walked out of the bathroom.
