Hazy Days

It isn't much, but I throw my stuff in a black garbage bag and hitch my purse up on my shoulder. I really don't have much- a few outfits, my pillow, and an extra pair of shoes easily fit in the bag. I take Scout by the leash and take one last look around.

I decided not to tell Joel. I can't. I just packed everything as silently as I could while he was in some drug and gin induced coma. But a clean break is what I need-what we both need- and if I see his face while he's awake, his lost child expression, I'll never have the willpower to leave. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the control he has over me. Sick of feeling this way. I'm sick of being sick.

"Good riddance," I say, but he doesn't even stir. I leave the keys on the coffee table and flick off the light, closing the door for the last time. Scout trots ahead of me down the stairs, rushing off to where Oliver is leaning against his car. I start to bring a cigarette to my lips but decide against it. I take a deep breath because on this nice day, with the sun warming my face, it feels so good just to breathe.