Holy Sins

AERIS Men are f*****g trash. Liars. Snakes. The worst goddamn mistake God ever made. I stood there at the grave, watching as they lowered that casket into the ground like it was nothing. Like my whole life wasn’t buried right along with him. Philip’s mom sobbed beside me, wailing into some stupid lace handkerchief while relatives whispered fake prayers and patted her back. Me? I didn’t cry. Not a single tear fell for Philip. He died in a hotel room naked, with his mistress beside him while I thought he was on call. That bastard had been sneaking around for five years and still looked me dead in the eye every morning, kissed my forehead like he loved me, called me “baby” before walking out to lie again. The priest droned on about peace and heaven but what kind of peace does a man get who died horny as hell f*****g another woman? None. Zero peace coming for you now, asshole. When they started shoveling dirt over his coffin I didn't flinch. Didn't scream. Didn't beg God to bring him back or some holy bullshit. I just turned around once it was covered up… walked straight to my car without looking back. Eleven minutes later I pulled into our house the one we bought together last summer after working double shifts just so we could afford a down payment. Same damn house today: porch light off (he always left it on), driveway empty (his truck usually parked crooked). No signs of life inside either; everything silent… too silent… Too clean. No TV humming from upstairs where he’d fall asleep watching sports reruns… No music playlists blasting through Bluetooth speakers… Just... nothingness echoing through hardwood floors when stepped across them... Like this place forgot how human lives worked here already… I stepped through the front door, keys still in my hand. The smell hit me first. His cheap cologne mixed with that stupid sandalwood soap he always used. It clung to the couch cushions, his jacket hanging by the door like he’d just left five minutes ago. Fucking hell. I didn’t touch anything. Didn’t sit down. Just walked straight through past our wedding photo on the wall (smiling faces I couldn't look at anymore), past his damn sneakers kicked off by the rug and into our bedroom. His side of it was untouched: black hoodie thrown over a chair, socks piled beside dresser drawers half-open… like he expected to come home tonight and change for bed again… Like everything was normal. But nothing ever had been. Not since day one probably. All those late shifts “covering emergency calls”? Bullshit. Those “business trips” where I got one blurry hotel photo texted back with no context? Lies upon lies upon f*****g lies. And now here were all his things still smelling like him… still taking up space… Like they had any right being here after what he did. My chest tightened not from sadness but rage. Pissed-off silence type s**t where your blood boils but you don't say a word out loud… The closet door was wide open, like he’d been digging through it last. Rows of his shirts hung there. The same ones I ironed every Sunday. Same damn plaid button-ups he wore to church just to play the good husband in front of God and everyone. One had a coffee stain on the collar from months ago the day we argued about money and he stormed out without breakfast. I didn’t touch them. Didn’t grab one. Didn't scream or throw s**t across the room like they deserved. But I hated them all so much. Hated how clean they were, how neat everything was folded… hated that even now, in death he still looked put together while my whole life fell apart over him being a piece-of-s**t liar who cheated on me for years. My hands curled into fists at my sides as I stared at that closet full of lies wearing his face like costumes… Then I turned away fast before something stupid happened… I grabbed my phone off the nightstand screen cracked from dropping it last week when I got that one text from an unknown number with a photo attached. A hotel room. A bed with tangled sheets. And Philip, shirtless, arms around some blonde woman’s waist like he owned her too. I screamed then. Thrown the phone across the room. Cried for three days straight before rage kicked in. Now? Seeing his clothes… being back in this house… It all came rushing back hotter than ever. My mom called again while I stood there frozen. “Aeris?” Her voice is soft but firm through the speakerphone. “You okay?” No lie could cover this s**t right now. “I’m at home,” I said flatly. “In our house.” Silence on her end for two seconds was enough time to know she understood everything without me saying another word. “Baby… come home tonight.” I exhaled hard through my nose, thumb hovering over the "end call" button. Home. Not this house. Not this hollow shell of a life I built with Philip the man who died screwing someone else like it meant nothing. No. My real home was where Mom lived three hours north in Larkhaven, that quiet little town with pine trees and no memories of him at all. “I’m packing up,” I said finally, voice steady but cold as ice. “Leaving this evening.” “Good.” Just one word but you could hear the relief underneath it. The way her shoulders probably dropped hearing me say it. I didn’t cry. Didn't hesitate. Already moving toward our walk-in closet mine on one side, his s**t taking up twice the space on his. First thing? A suitcase pulled off the top shelf. Then I started throwing clothes in: jeans… sweaters… socks… anything that wasn't stained by him or tied to this life anymore... No photos came out. No sentimental bullshit… Just survival mode now Get out.