Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
He walks over to me, still smirking. “This is what I mean,” he says gesturing back at the boxes. “Even when you’re making a mess, you can’t help but be perfect and clean.”
“That’s not true.”
“Come on, filthy girl, let loose a little bit. Don’t you want to just break all this shit? All this rich person garbage? Take a guitar down from the wall and smash it, go ahead, what the fuck do you care?”
“No,” I say, my face turning pale. “That’s a total waste. I mean, we can donate it to someone who—”
But Carmine’s not listening. He plucks down a big acoustic guitar and holds it by the neck with both hands. “Watch how fun it is.”
“Carmine!”
He whacks it down onto the floor and it makes a violent twang as the wood buckles and the metal strings snap. He laughs at the destruction, at the little shards of wood scattered on the floor, and my hands cover my mouth and my heart starts to race.
I sought refuge in here to calm down, to find order and control over the chaos of my life, and he’s coming in here and making a freaking mess, and I’m supposed to stand around and thank him for it. He thinks he’s doing me this big favor by pointing out that I’m a little uptight, a little repressed, and yeah, a little obsessive and particular. It’s not like I’m pathological or anything, but it feels good to create lists and charts and structures, and it drives me crazy that he’s hell-bent on shoving me back down into disarray.
“Just get out of there,” I say, my hands curled into fists. “Leave me alone, okay? You’re only making me feel so much worse.”
He drops the shattered guitar on the floor and walks over to me. “This is what I mean. You act like you can find meaning in all this.” He gestures at the boxes and their labels dismissively as if I’m crazy for wanting to try to control one tiny aspect of my life. “Except this is only worthless labor. This is what your family wants you to be. But you can be anything you want now, Brice.”
“I want to be alone. How’s that sound?”
He smiles but doesn’t take the bait. “Break something. Smash it. Enjoy the raw, dark pleasure of destruction. Come on, filthy girl, I know that deep down in there somewhere, all you want to do is stab me in the throat with the jagged end of a snapped guitar neck. So why not grab one from the wall and break it?”
I snarl, shove past him, and storm over to the row of guitars. He wants to push my buttons? He wants to see how far I’ll go? Then screw him, I’ll show him exactly what I’m capable of. I don’t care if this is exactly what he wants, I’m too angry for that now. I grab the nicest, most expensive guitar I can find—at least the one that looks the most expensive—and hold it in both hands. I glare at him as he grins back and he gives me just the smallest of nods.
I raise it up, heart racing, adrenaline pumping, and slam it down onto the floor.
The beautiful, expensive guitar shatters. It breaks into pieces with a loud twang and I release a shocked yelp, and a loud peal of laughter breaks out from my throat. The rush of destroying something for no reason other than to ruin it rolls through my body and I stand there with the ruined hunk of wood and strings and stare at Carmine, my heart racing, my skin buzzing with electricity and excitement.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” I say and laugh stupidly. “That was so wasteful.”
“It felt good, didn’t it?” He comes toward me.
I toss the ruined guitar on the floor and it doesn’t even bother me. Well, a little, but I just ignore that. “It felt really good. I almost don’t want to admit it, but I really needed a little stress relief.”
“That’s real life, filthy girl. It’s messy and destructive and sometimes it feels so fucking nice to give in to your basest, most animalistic desires.”
I back up against the piano, and he keeps coming. I stare at him, fingers gripping the smooth, black lacquered edge, and his eyes move down to my lips. I tilt my chin closer, head dizzy with confused ideas, not sure if I want to keep going and rip this room to pieces or if I want to get a broom and sweep up the dust. My two sides are at war, and neither is winning.
He stops inches in front of me and touches my cheek.
“I’m proud of you, filthy girl.”
“If I ever did something like that when I was growing up, my grandfather would’ve killed me.” I smile a bit at the thought. “I almost want to go home and shatter a few of those priceless vases they have lying around everywhere.”