seaycee (A Collection of Short Stories)

Manufactured Love.

edited :)
*Exaggeration of the concept. More reasons for unhappiness/less obliviousness.*

"Babe, I think we should talk-

"Since when do you think Kaycee?" he laughs cynically, his chest puffed up with irritation at the tone in her voice, "besides, I don't have time for you."

He says this on his way out, his hand pulling behind him the handle of his suitcase. He places a brief, pedestrian kiss to the crown of her head, lifting away before he even really makes contact, and turning before he can notice her flinch in response.

He did this pretty often.

Made biting comments in passing under the guise of it being a joke and then leaving. Always leaving.

She couldn't piece it together but she thought that maybe in his head, this routine made sense. Out of sight, out of mind; for any of his behaviours that could be misconstrued as hurtful.

"Sean, please, I really think-

The door slams behind him with a resounding thud and she deflates like air leaving a pricked balloon.

Always leaving.

"Fuck."

The cauldron of anxiety bubbles over, reacting sporadically to the heated sheen of her skin and the pounding in her ears.

"Get a grip, Kaycee," she bites, nails biting into the tender flesh of her curled palms, "you're perfectly fine."

She wasn't. Fine, that is.

She was tumbling headfirst off a cliff into oncoming traffic, the thin harness holding her back from becoming roadkill was looking increasingly threadbare.

Her movements are both erratic and slow, like trekking through mud as she stumbles into the kitchen. Desperate hands pilfer through the pantry in search for a remedy, for something to smooth the edges and settle her heartbeat. She grabs the first bottle in reach and slams it back, eyes screwed shut against the familiar burn of the liquid.

Some days it felt like all that was keeping her alive.

She laughs. The sound is grating, bitter, and leaves behind an acrid taste in the back of her mouth that has nothing to do with the vodka. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she opens the messaging app and types a sloppy train of thought.

To: Kylie 🥰

Can'anymore. H e gone gain. 9:45 pm.

I dk why I even tru. Sorry for bein sdisapointment 9:49 pm.

She'd missed another opportunity. Like an amateur who couldn't read the gibberish plays set out for her, she'd stumbled and screwed the game for the whole team. She hated feeling this way, hated being this person.

"Where did I go wrong?" she whispers, her last word a whimpered cry.

These days, she felt as though her entire existence was centred upon being an extension of him. The part that was a little less intelligent, a little less cool and a little less than good enough. God, she couldn't even leave him properly.

It hadn't always been this way.

She liked to think herself smart enough to have recognised the red flags early on if that had been the case. But the changes had been so gradual, too imperceptible to catch early on like a case of a frog in hot water. He had seemingly overnight gone from being her childhood sweetheart to the stranger in her bed who used words only to degrade her. Otherwise, it was as though she had ceased to exist.