The Other Woman

The week had gone by surprisingly fast, despite my slight depression. Tre was making me all sorts of happy and satiated this week, but I was still a little disappointed in myself. Sometimes during the night, I would just stare at his sleeping figure, asking God why he sent such a beautiful man to such an ugly woman…

And it was on my second to last night with him when it happened.
When all the secrecy had been revealed.

While Serenity continued to tender to a romantic dinner for Tre and herself, Tre had just finished his fresh shower. Stark nude and still a little wet he flops on the bed, already smelling the mouth watering aroma of their dinner brewing in his kitchen by his lovely Serenity.

He had just opened his underwear drawer, which was fairly empty in comparison to other people, since he after all preferred going commando. He flung on a white button up dress shirt, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows before stepping into a pair of black slacks. He eyed himself in the mirror, winking even, at his attractive attire.

While grabbing his Calvin Cline cologne, he noticed Serenity's handbag sitting on his dresser, remembering how he had teased her about it the other day, with its bulky gold buckles and annoyingly bright sequins. He didn’t mean to, but his eyes scanned onto the words 'album' somewhere in the dark corners of the slightly opened handbag. With a click and spray of cologne to his neck, he set the bottle down before retrieving the small photo album from his girlfriend's purse.

With one hand he opened the book, a smile capturing his face as he saw photographs of him and his girlfriend together, smiling, laughing, kissing, etc. But as his finger turned to close the album, since his stomach began to rumble, two sheets of tightly folded papers fell out of the untouched back of the album.

He kneeled to the floor to retrieve the folded papers, and then a horrible curiosity took hold of him. He grinned as he unfolded one of the papers, expecting it to be a letter of some sort from Serenity or maybe a neatly written grocery list even.

But he was oh so wrong.

And his eyes burned with such a pain as he read the papers that he swore they bled.

With a quick twist of my wrist I turn off the stove, letting the lovely scent of a roast waft throughout the kitchen. I knew Tre was probably still getting dressed or maybe even primping his tall hair in the mirror, just waiting for me to call him down for dinner.

It still didn’t look right, the scene that is, so I wander over to one of his wooden kitchen drawers and retrieve two beige colored candles. Candlesticks already stood atop the dining table, so all it took was a lighter and the candles were lit and standing. Waltzing back into the kitchen, I carefully share out plates of food for Tre and I, obviously placing a tad bit more food in his plate than my own.

Champagne.

That's what I had been missing.

And I had just re-entered the dining room with a chilled bottle of sparkling champagne when my eyes notice a dark figure on the other side of the table. Tre.

And he looked none too happy.

My fingers grip the bottle of champagne tightly, having no idea why his eyes looked so dangerously dark, or why his entire body was shaking with convulsions, or even why his face was wet with what seemed to be tears.

My nostrils flare up, my pulse beats maddeningly in my chest, the instinct of danger reverberating in the entire house.

"You...fucking...bitch," he seethes in a low tone, his fist clenching whatever paper he had in his hand.

"Wha--"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!" he roars, roughly tossing me the sheets of crushed and damp papers across the table. My mind is reeling millions of miles a minute, what could he have possibly found?

I unfold the papers, tears already gripping my eyes before my brain can even comprehend what the words meant. And then it's all familiar. The abortion papers. The paternity test results, Billie Joe’s name and signature.

Jesus.

My heart beats rapidly from inside my chest, and before I know it, he's right next to me, screaming in my ear.

"HOW COULD YOU?!!" he shouts, and then snatches the bottle of champagne from my hands only to violently hurl it across the room, smashing it against a wall, shattering the overpriced bottle into a thousand wet shards.

Tears of pain run like rapids down my cheeks. My mouth is dry, clamped shut, unable to explain myself.

"And looky too what I found in your phone...," he sneers. And then he brings my phone up into my face, showing me Billie Joe's number, which is still aliased as A. Idiot and a few messages he had sent to my phone, way early before Tre and I had gotten serious.
I brought set of whips and a gag for the next time you visit

I miss you Billie,

My stomach and its contents were threatening to reintroduce themselves in mere seconds.

"Fucking slut," he bites, walking away from me. And then his fist clench once more before hurling my phone across the room, it too smashing into little pieces against the wall.

"T-tre. Let me ex-exp--" I try to utter, painful sobs cutting off my words.
But he interrupts. "Don't you fucking say one WORD TO ME!" he yells.

I can’t give up though, not on the man that I love.

I approach him, touching his shoulder so he can face me.

Bad Idea

He rushes around, ripping my hands from his shoulders. "I don't want you touching me. God knows where your hands have been," he swears, his eyes showing no glimpse of remorse or love whatsoever.

My heart skips at least three beats at his venomous words. And the choking sobs that I had tried my damnedest to hold down reappear with a vengeance. My knees weaken, and my legs wobble as I fall to the floor, head in hands as I cry my eyes out.

"How long has he been fucking you, huh?!" Tre roars at me, standing above my torn body.
"I cant believe I brought you into my house..."
"Fucking slut," he barks

And he continues barking blasphemies at me, my mind and body crumbling as more torching words and accusations are thrown at me. Bitch. Slut. Liar. Hoe.

And as I cry, he lifts me up by my shoulders, crying eyes peering into crying eyes.

"How could you do this to me?" he inquires, slowly, desperately.
“Did I do something to you?”

But my voice box has already drowned, and my nerves are soaked, so comprehensive words are incapable of pouring out of my mouth at the moment.

And then he lets go, tears streaming down both of our faces.

"Get the fuck outta here," he proclaims in a dead panned voice, back already retreating out of the kitchen.

But my knees are still glued to his floor, unable to move a muscle.

What would happen to us?
Would he be o.k alone?
What was he going to do to Billie Joe?

A bolt of lightning cracks through the earth, and the deep heavy sound of thunder shakes the ground beneath me.
"I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!" he screams a few minutes later, marching back into the kitchen after he sees that my figure has not yet left the kitchen.

"I-I-I'm so sorry, Tre" I manage to uselessly choke out.

"You're what?" he questions me, eyes and mouth twitched in disgust, eyeing me as if my words are inconceivable. And hell, maybe they aren’t. "You're sorry for fucking my best friend behind my back? For getting involved with me even though you were his whore to fucking begin with? For fucking a married man?"

"Ju--" I try to explain, but am interrupted by a rampant Tre.

"Are you sorry for leading me on? Ripping my fucking heart out? Or is that you're sorry you just got caught?"

And before I can further attempt to explain my case, more painful words breathe through his mouth.
"I don’t ever want to see your lying face again, you hear me?!" he spits. And then he grabs my wrist, dragging me out of the kitchen, into the living room, and finally at the front door.

He ignores my protests; that he’s making a mistake, that I’m sorry, that he’s hurting my wrists…

The rain pelts dangerously loud outside. And he grips my wrist tightly with one hand, the other opening the door as torrential rain pours through his home. With one heavy push, he viciously tosses me out the door. My legs faltering at the brutal force, and before I know it I'm on my ass in the hurricane esque rain on the wet and muddy grass.

My crying eyes blur as he stands at the front door, the boisterous noise from the rain obstructing my hearing. His unforgiving eyes peer solemnly into my own. And for a few aspiring moments, I think he might actually run into the lawn, lift me up into his arms, and kiss me in the dancing rains. And with instant forgiveness and understanding he would whisk me in his arms into his warm abode, up into his bedroom, only to make love to me.

Oh, but this was reality, not a magical fairytale, or even Barney for that matter. And before I know it, another bang of thunder and he quickly stomps into his house, slamming the front door shut with a deafening boom.

I still have a chance though, right? Of him throwing the door back open? For him to place me rightfully in his arms?

But when the front door locks echo into my ears through the harsh rain, I knew there was no such thing as chance.

He hated me, wouldn’t THINK of touching me, and definitely didn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore.

The thoughts evade my senses, and my tears can’t seem to stop flowing. And then nausea hits me, and fast. All the anxiety, fear, and loathing striking my stomach all at once.

My head sails for the ground as the gritty contents of my belly rush upwards and out. My hands are pressed on the wet grass, on either side of my head, trying to hold up my weight so I don’t fall into my own vomit.

And it cant stop, the gagging, the heaving. Not until the taste of bitter vile runs through my mouth does it finally cease.

It’s still raining, thundering, and lightning, when I finally wipe the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand. He wasn’t coming back out, and I had no where to go, not in this worthless excuse for a state, California.

And so, my tears had paused, but my breathing is still tainted, my body still weak as I wonder the streets of Oakland tonight, trying to find a payphone of sorts. I don’t dare enter any of the dark alleys or suspicious looking shops at this hour or in this condition, but I’m getting desperate.

A few cars honk at me, even a cab or two approach. But I have absolutely nothing; no phone, no identification, no cash, sheer nothing.

And finally, when my legs are cramping and might even fall off, I spot a dirty payphone booth on the corner of the street I’m currently on. My fingers run like the wind as they press each digit, dialing Jennifer’s cell number. And my heart races when the phone successfully rings…and rings…and rings.

“Hello?” I hear her voice, a tinge of confusion laced in her voice at who was calling her this late at night and by collect.
“Jen…Jennifer” I whimper, my tears immediately rushing back to me at the sound of her angelic voice.

“Who is this? Is that you Seny?” she questions in a soft tone.
“Jen…” I wail, unable to keep my voice stable. “He-he-foun..” I choke.

“Serenity, what’s wrong? Where are you? What happened?!” she asks frantically.

I can barely hear the mess of questions she’s asking me, my mind still flooded with the events that occurred just an hour ago, and the storm outside still too loud.
“Tre, h-he fou-found out,” I hiccup, shutting my eyes tight as our demise replays over and over in my mind, rain still dripping down my body.

“Oh my God!” she gasps. “Are you o.k? What happened?”
“He kicked me out,” I sob, tears trickling down my cheeks. “And my p-p-purse a-and clothes a-a-are still a-at his h-house. What am I supposed to d-do?”

A sudden crash of thunder frightens me, the loud sound echoing in my already dizzy head.
“Shit. You need to find a hotel or something to stay in for the night. You don’t—“
“I don’t see any damnit! I’ve been walking for h-how long now,” I wail. “I’m scared,”

“Uuugh,” she groans in frustration. “You need to find one, just keep walking. And when you find one, gimme a call so I can give them my account info. I can’t believe that bastard kicked you ou—“

“I-i-i deserved a lot m-m-more than that,” I stutter through my tears, jumping again when a flash of piercing lightning sparks the dark sky and a morbid smash of thunder echoes once more.

“You did not, you hear me?” she bellows, but her question is rhetorical because I knew I did.

Her words and speech pass through my left ear into the right, and finally outside, nothing of what she was saying making sense. Actually, I’m simply too brain dead to understand her coping idioms.

“Hurry and find a motel, and call me, ok?” she finally concludes.

I nod, mouth still screwed shut.
“Seny? You there?”
“Yeah, alright” I sniff, attaching the dirty public phone back onto the hook, thus ending our conversation.

It’s still raining horribly wicked outside, so I stay in the shielding phone booth for a few extra minutes. My hand immediately goes to my forehead, a headache of sorts forming in my skull.

Billie Joe.

My mind instinctively goes to him, one of the main causes of my troubles tonight. He had to be warned that Tre knew, that he’d better hide out somewhere incase his band mate suddenly turned into a maniac. And after a few battles with remembering his phone number, I’m finally successful.

“Er, hello?” he greets awkwardly
I whimper, “Billie,” tears already reforming around my eyes at the sound of his voice.

I can hear his children yelling and playing with another in the background, Joey calling his younger brother a ‘cry baby’.

“Hello? Who is this?”
“It’s m-me, Seny,”
“Are you o.k Serenity? What’s wrong?” he asks with sincere concern
I can’t even answer his questions as my tears flow over the call line, my sobs biting into his ears.

“Serenity, what’s wrong?” he asks, this time a little more forceful.

“Tre, h-h-he, ki-kicked—“

“What the,” Billie suddenly stammers, violently loud knocks banging at his front door. “Who the hell is that at the door?” he asks to no one in particular.

But I knew.
And then it happened…and I knew it was all over then.

“Billie, its Tre! Don’t get the doo—“
“I’m sorry Seny, hold on a sec.” he interrupts

“Billie! Do you plan on answering the door?” I can hear Adrienne call out to her husband.

I cry even more, not wanting to hear the confrontation that was to take place.

‘Tre? Why the hell are yo—‘ I hear Billie Joe, and then a large thud is all I can make out over the phone.
A punch.
My eyes nearly jump with shock when I hear the screams of Joey and Jakob and the continuous pummels and poundings in the Armstrong household.

“Oh my God!” I scream
‘Uncle Tre! Uncle Tre! Mom!” are the only comprehensible cries I can make out from the miniature Billie Joe’s.

‘What the hell?’ Adrienne shrieks.

‘Fucking bastard,’ I hear Tre spit.

My heart cannot take anymore, so I hang up the phone, my body slipping down the glass booth at the catastrophe I just witnessed.

Poor Billie Joe…