KARMA

13. HELL, YEAH!

A Note from Ashleigh

This chapter is a mix of old and new, mostly old.

............................................................................................................................................

LISA

I wake up at seven thirty in the morning and Ryan is gone.

I pick up my phone, type.

Hey, sweetie. Are you free for lunch today? Let's meet up. 1:00 p.m. at Molly's Cafe?

I wait for a minute. Two.

My phone pings.

SUSAN: Okay. But it has to be a short lunch. I have a board meeting at 3:00 p.m. All the senior partners and executives will be there.

I text, No problem. Can't wait to see you and tell you the latest!

Be seeing you, she texts back. On my way to work. Hectic day ahead.

Oh, Sue, sweetie, trust me. You don't know how hectic today's going to be.

It's time to strike.

I fill my lungs with air. I have to be strong. I have to be a carnivore. To bite and swallow them whole.

The house is quiet. But I am filled with energy, my entire being pumped up, the fury and hate and adrenalin surging through my bloodstream, firing up my veins, a raging river of hot, molten lava.

I fly around like a mad thing, throwing open wardrobes, drawers, rummaging through shelves. I stuff the results of my blitz into large, black garbage bags.

Our framed photographs stare at me as I tear about the house. Pictures of Ryan and me through the years. As teenagers in love in school. Undergraduates in university. Locking eyes on our wedding day. Kissing on our honeymoon. Arms wrapped lovingly around each other on our vacations. We couldn't get enough of each other; it seemed a physical impossibility. In twelve years, he was always there, could always cheer me up, make me laugh; he always wanted to.

Now a wind blows through me. I am hollow.

He's ruined it all, every good memory we had, every laugh we shared, every smile, every hug, every kiss.

I rip the framed photographs off the walls, the tables. Chuck them into another garbage bag. I drag the garbage bag to the backyard. I make a bonfire. I dump the whole garbage bag into the flames. I stand there, watching it burn. The flames shoot up to the sky like rockets. The glass frames shatter. I hear the glass crack, crackle. I watch the photographs blacken, twist, curl up at the edges. I stand there until nothing remains, only smoke and ash and dust and bits and pieces of broken glass. The fire dies out on its own, leaving an acrid smell in the air. Gray ashes flutter in the wind, swirling lifelessly, like lost, wandering phantoms, above the graveyard of tainted memories and broken dreams.

I turn and walk back into the house.

I fell in love with Ryan when I was sixteen. I was a transfer student. He told me he fell in love with me at first sight. It was magical. I remember how we looked at each other, right from that first moment, as if sensing that it was special somehow, that we would never be apart. We had something. I really thought we had.

I never thought it would be so easy to lose.

The rage returns in full force.

I fling all his stuff into a heap. There's the new pink shirt he wore at a recent barbeque. He told me casually he had bought it in London on his "working" trip. It reminds me of Susan, whose favourite colours are red and pink. Red tie. Pink shirt. She bought them for him. Or he bought them for her. It makes no difference. They just rub in the fact that he's a two-faced snake, a liar and a cheater.