Cheat

Claire is screaming in my face as I numbly sit on the couch, staring straight ahead in an attempt to not lash out and leave long, scathing scratches across her fox-like face. Her voice is far away, like there is an expansive prairie between us, littered with trash and dismantled limbs, complete with broken hearts. It’s the prairie of my devastation, the path of my horrid, selfish tornado.

“Whore!” she cries, her high cheekbones blazing red. “Slut! He was supposed to be mine! We were supposed to be friends!”

I say nothing.

“I have half a mind to tell Reed!” she challenges, her hands shaking at her sides. I should be feeling something, some feeling of regret or nervousness or fear. All that’s there is the dull urge to punch her as hard as I can. Fucking Claire.

“Go ahead,” I deadpan.

After she storms out of the house in frustration and disbelief, I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. My skin is sallow, eyes hollow, lips pale and chapped. I am a shell of who I once was. I am no longer the person I worked myself up to be – the dedicated girlfriend, the respectful friend, the good person. That person is gone, and this shadow is left.

Who am I?