UNHINGED (R-18) ENGLISH

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

THE HEARTH

It's been hours since you came here. It's dark. It's empty. And cold. Tranquility consumes the immense space; even the hum of the air purifier fades into nothing. The solitude is supposed to calm you. But you're here... you sit still, and your mind won't shut up.

Jean just left a moment ago. He left you alone on the bed. You were pretending to be asleep. He's probably at the gym by now.

Or does he...

"No," you say. You cannot afford paranoia. Not tonight. You've come here to your office to release things you've stuffed in that box—that box inside your head. You named it—Jean ver. 2.0

You shift your seat. You sit straight and pull the laptop lid. Then you click the icon—the one you've been using for work—Standard Notes.

You wait for it to open. Then the note appears on the screen.

No reason to turn back now. No one else will see this but you. Breathe in. Breathe out. When you type, you have to be direct—no flowery words. No intros. You go spiral, yes. But this will empty the box. Within the next few months, it will be full again.

For a second, nothing moves—then the clicks from the keyboard come, one after another.

JULY 23, 20xx_Journal Entry #1

Today is a two-for-one celebration—my 27th birthday, and Halsey's 5th month.

The celebration took place at our house earlier tonight. The evening in LA was going smoothly. Angelo, Tuscany, and the entire design team invited me to go clubbing. I initially accepted, but had to decline at the last minute.

So, here I am, sitting in front of my laptop, feeling like a total newbie. It's been forever since I last wrote in a journal—probably since high school. I stopped after Mom stumbled upon it and read it.

At first, I didn't plan on doing this again. I was a little paranoid about someone reading this...but

You freeze. Your eyes close. Your fingers stop—the caret doesn't. It blinks continuously. When you open your eyes, it waits—still blinking. An act of taunting, challenging you: If you're not strong enough to face this, hit the backspace key. Run. Hide. Until you can't. And then you say, This is a bad idea.

But then again, the box is full. You continue...

I went to see a psychiatrist a week ago—my first time doing so. Although I can still manage my emotions, it's helpful to have someone to talk to.

I didn't share specific details with the psychiatrist. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Maybe because my current situation... is challenging for me.

You delete the period, the last four words, and the ellipses.

"Maybe because of my current situation," you repeat, your fingers move again, is challenging for me to come to terms with, and she respected that.

I asked her for some simple ways to cope with intense emotions, especially when I'm stressed. She suggested I try therapeutic journaling.

And finally, I'm doing it right now. I'm stressed, tired... and lonely... I mean, it's my birthday, right?

Guess what? Jean completely forgot my birthday. Despite the celebration, he didn't greet me.

But it's okay. Everybody remembered my birthday—even Hugo. He sent me a bouquet (with a note), which is now on my desk in my office. The bouquet features 12 orange lilies and a single, enormous red (nearly black) rose at its center. Maxine told me that orange lilies symbolize resentment and anger, while roses represent love.

You glance at the bouquet. Strangely, the light coming from the next building emphasizes the rose. The lilies can't be seen, as if they are no longer there. It's been over five years since you and Hugo got divorced. You two became close friends after that. You'd like to call it a platonic relationship.

Even though he truly changed, he's now back to his old self—a jerk. He will never change. You know this.

You shake your head and breathe out. Clicks from the keyboard continue. This time, your fingers don't stop.

At least Hugo remembered.

I haven't spoken to him since the last time he called after I gave birth to Halsey. I should reach out to him. It's not that I'm concerned about what he wanted to point out, given the flowers he sent me; he clearly stated (with his harsh handwriting) in the note that even though he wants me to be happy and says how much he misses me, he still hates me.

I'm irritated that at 43, he's acting like a child. He always was. Honestly, I want to hate him. I told him that the last time he called. I would never forget he'd abandoned his daughter with Frida, like what he did to our daughter—Hermione—when he didn't go to the funeral. He wouldn't even care that I found her—Snow.

She's over a year old now. White hair. Brown eyes. She's so beautiful. Loved and cared by a wealthy family here in LA.

Still, I want to see that jerk. I'm worried about his well-being. Maybe I'll visit him soon in prison.

But these are not the reasons why I'm writing this. I'm overwhelmed right now. I've been hiding my frustrations for a while since Halsey reached her third month. And my list of frustrations is full.

1st on the list: My birthday celebration was set to take place at my parents' house in the Philippines. Currently, my cousins, some uncles, and aunts are already there. However, I had to cancel the trip at the last minute, just as I turned down Angelo and Tuscany's invitation to go clubbing.

Earlier, Tuscany made a side comment about it. She noticed Jean glaring at me. She asked if I declined because of Jean.

I didn't answer. Honestly, before she asked me that, I didn't know why I had to decline. I didn't even notice Jean glaring at me.

Then it hit me: Tuscany's question made me realize the things Jean had been doing since we got married. He said many times that he didn't like how Tuscany spoke to me—as if I weren't the boss—and that my team should show me more respect.

And when I told him that Mom wanted me to visit them for my birthday, he said that Mom seemed to be trying to control me again, which was the reason why I had to cancel the trip.

Even about some of my big clients, he always had something to say. Like, 'That singer has s****l assault charges. Haven't you heard the news?' Or, 'That actress booked my restaurant once—she never showed up. Worse, I didn't charge her for a booking fee. I mean, she's famous.'

I believed him. Because they were true. So, I rejected some of them, then assigned the projects to other senior interior designers—this happened six or maybe eight times over the course of a year.

I'm not sure if all this is just an assumption, but really, why hadn't I noticed before? Am I just being paranoid?

I should stop thinking negatively about Jean. Because I know his intentions are good... right?

2nd on the list: Jean suddenly becomes distant. Practically silent—for over two f*cking months! He doesn't go to work often. Most of the time, he just stays at home. He has stopped doing what he loves: cooking. But he takes care of Halsey... still, a good thing is happening here.

As for me? I became the only one responsible for taking care of everything. From maintaining the house (like changing light bulbs), to his monthly doctor visits, his restaurant schedules, his emotional state, his well-being, my emotional state, and my work. Everything...

I'm not being whiny. I'm aware that most of the things I mentioned above are my responsibilities.

3rd on the list: We haven't had intimacy for a couple of months straight. He hasn't touched me, hugged me, or kissed me. He kissed me, though, before I went to work, but it was just a peck on the lips. Not a torrid kiss, not an intimate kiss, not a passionate kiss. God! I miss his tongue. I miss tasting him. His saliva... His c0ck, everything in him.

We used to make love every day, after he recovered from his heart transplant, before I gave birth to Halsey, and after my post-birth bleeding. But when Halsey reached her third month, everything changed...

I tried to initiate first. I even let him get drunk. I stroked his c0ck while he slept. He was aroused. Yet, he rejected me, not only once but a few times, and I feel... ugly.

F*ck! I hate this feeling!

Sometimes, I look at myself in the mirror. I check my body to see if I've gotten fat or ugly, and then compare it to my old pictures. But there are no changes at all. Sure, there are stretch marks due to pregnancy. But Jean used to admire them. He even kissed them, telling me it made me look more beautiful and sexy.

It's been two months. And I'm sexually frustrated. Sometimes I watch porn and masturbate.

"F*ck! Why am I even saying this?" you ask, planting your face against your palm. For a moment, you question yourself again, why can't you cry? There's this smile on your face as you stare at the screen. A kind that gives you a bitter taste in the mouth.

You grab your tumbler and drink water to wash the taste. It never help. In the end, you endure. Breathe in. Breathe out, you continue to type.

4th on the list: I don't know what's going on with Jean. I tried to ask him many times, but he always told me that there was nothing wrong and that I was just overreacting and too emotional.

And you think so too. There's a voice inside your head now, telling you, "This is you, being emotional. Such a whiny woman. Too needy."

But you keep your head straight. Fingers never stop typing.

Although I know what I see and feel is real, it still confuses me...

So, this morning, on my birthday, he gave me the same answer again. That's when I finally lost it: I confronted him, yelling, crying all at once. We got into a full-blown argument. He told me to calm down and that he cares about me, but I couldn't let it go. I even said to him, I'm the only one who genuinely cares.

Then, that's it. He slapped me in the face. Just once, but it was hard. Hard enough to make my cheek red. I got out of balance and fell on the bed.

For a moment, I was stunned, just staring at him. It felt like the world had frozen around me. But Jean's expression—his eyes blazing, his arms and jaw clenched—never wavered. He even accused me of making him do it—the slap—and walked away, leaving me in the bedroom as I broke down in tears again.

He was right, though. I think I'm the one who made him hurt me. We wouldn't have argued if I hadn't started it. Even my crying stopped when he hit me. I felt something—numb, maybe? It only lasted for a moment, so I'm not sure.

But I'm okay now. Jean apologized tonight, and he finally hugged me and kissed me. I thought we were going to have s*x, but Jean pulled back as soon as my hand went to his c0ck (He was hard! Goddamit!).

I was disappointed, a bit. But I told him he needed to see his doctor. He agreed, so I set an appointment. We will meet him tomorrow. I hope Jean is okay. I want him to be okay. I need to believe there's nothing wrong with him. I have to.

Air catches in your throat as the cursor flies toward the corner of the note. Time is your enemy—the more seconds pass, the more you want to hit the backspace key, as if deleting the words could somehow erase the feelings and memories behind them. Instead, you close the app, turn off the laptop, and shut the lid.

Jean ver. 2.0 is empty. You like to think you're okay now.

You're not.

Everything you believe about your husband is just you being in denial. You saw the signs. You've experienced this before—from Mom. But you choose to ignore them all. You always do, like what you did during your marriage with Hugo.

You've escaped the cycle twice. Now you're here. Now you're back.

___________

I'm still chained to everything I swore I'd outrun. I learned to trust lies the moment I saw how truth could blind me—twice. And if silence is survival, and survival demands understanding the pain, then I have no choice but to carry it quietly.

—Heather

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