My Ex Waited In Line For My Autograph

CLEO CLEMENTINE. I cried for three exhausting days in a row, without food, water or a shower. I couldn't stop the tears. Right now I can barely see anything through my swollen eyes as I lay on my back, weak, emotionally exhausted and feeling sick. “You're free to go, Cleo. Sign this.” My now ex-husband, Rowan, had spat at my face from the entrance to a house we once shared, his mistress swaying her ass in front of me as if to brag that she had finally convinced my husband to get rid of me. It was the best reality I've been in since entering the doomed marriage. Nothing, no f*****g thing, had ever made me happier and more relieved than those words. The thought that I was finally free - gosh, I could kiss that mistress for her big contribution to my freedom. A drop of happy tears glided down my face. I took the divorce papers and signed them before he could change his mind. (I'm sure somewhere in Rowan's delusional mind he thought I was crying because I was completely broken about the divorce. Why would I be? After everything he had done to me? The audacity men possess is truly wonderful). When I was finally sure both his signature and mine were on the paper, I almost screamed into the void. At God, at him, at everyone available to hear my cry for freedom. I barely even noticed the disaster surrounding me. Every single thing I owned had been flung out the door, scattered into the street like waste, and as if my luck couldn’t get any better, the cloud decided it was the perfect time to cry. Probably happy with me. Rain must be the universe's way of celebrating and congratulating me. I was wet from head to toe, with my luggage open and half my things scattered on the wet, muddy ground, yet the only thing that mattered to me at the time was my freedom. I looked at Rowan because I heard him scoff, “Don't bother begging; I will never take you back." He had said, still standing at the entrance. Proudly. With his mistress’s arms wrapped around him, who was also mirroring every expression on his face. I looked away from them, my eyes falling to the face of his mistress. She was the reason Rowan was letting me go. After months of trying to make him divorce me so he could marry her instead, he finally agreed. Heaven knows what she promised him; why would I care? She thinks she's hurting and harming me. She wanted to, and I totally agree with her; Rowan divorcing me for her is the perfect punishment. I gave her a lazy smile. "Thank you." She frowned, turned towards Rowan and began to kiss him, as if to hurt me more. Bitch, you are doing me a whole favour by taking that hot hell of a headache off my hands. She obviously doesn't know she's doing me a favour. "Thank you so much," I repeat. “Very much." Rowan broke the kiss and turned towards me. Angrily. “Look at you, you couldn't even be the one thing you thought you could be, Cleo,” he said, throwing out my last piece of belonging at me. It hit my face and fell to the ground. I swallowed hard, not daring to take a step, look him in the eye, or even breathe too loudly. We don't want him snapping right now. “You have always been an aspiring author since I've known you,” he continued. “You couldn't even become that. So useless.” He ruined that! Stopped me from following my dreams as soon as I entered the cursed marriage. Without saying a word, I fell to my knees and began to pack my things. Not caring about anything but leaving. I needed to hurry and run. I reached for the last wet piece of clothing on the ground, picked it up, shovelled it into my luggage, and got back up to find Rowan kissing his mistress passionately. They were digging into each other's mouths like I didn’t even exist. Good. Keep him busy for me. When I took a step away from them, a tear glided down my face. When I took ten steps, another tear glided down with a loud intake and exhale of breath. When I finally disappeared into the darkness, I screamed until I was left with no air in my lungs. With nowhere else to go, I knew my only option was a guest house, so I made my way there. “A room, please,” I said to an average-looking old lady sitting behind a desk in the guest house. “We charge fifteen dollars per night for a basic room and fifty dollars per night for a standard room,” she announced. “For a basic room, you get a fan, a shared bathroom and essential property damage. For a standard room, you get a full air conditioner, TV, WiFi, a clean private bathroom, and gated 24/7 security.” “I’ll go for the basic room,” I responded, clenching my fist tight. “How long would you be staying?” “A week.” “That’s a hundred and five bucks total. Here’s your key; your room is located straight ahead, at the very end of the hallway. Room 12 is carved on the door. Enjoy your stay.” I nodded at the receptionist before turning around to locate my room, dragging my heavy, water-dripping luggage behind me. I could feel the lady staring at the back of my brain, but I didn’t care. I was literally someone who pulled up at midnight barefoot, wet, and looking like a jump scare; alongside my dripping luggage, I’d stare at me too. Reaching the room, I inserted the key and twisted the doorknob. It opened with a click, and I dragged my luggage in. Now I'm here, trying to figure out what next I’d do with my life. The only thing I'm sure of is that I'm never getting involved with a MAN again. Never again. I slam my eyes shut to rest them. I have come to a decision: I will become an author. Not just any author, a bestseller. He ruined my dreams, but it's never too late to start anew, and the first step to doing that is surviving. I need to be alive to write, after all. I snatch my phone from the small table by my bed. It couldn’t ID my face because of my swollen eyes, so I use my fingerprint to unlock it, going straight to my bank app. To survive, I need to find a place to stay and feed myself until I get a job and my next paycheck. For that, I need at least a thousand bucks minimum. My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling just enough to misread my fingerprint twice before the bank app finally unlocks. Authenticating… I hold my breath, a tiny, foolish spark of hope fluttering in my chest. Since I don’t know how much I actually have and just save every penny in my secret account, maybe I’d have a thousand bucks or more. The dashboard loads. The bright whine interface flashes, and then the numbers appear in bold, unapologetic black font: $48.99 My stomach plunges off a cliff, figuratively; I feel it drop. The room goes dead quiet, the ambient hum of the ceiling fan fading into a dull, rushing roar in my ears. I stare at the balance, then I blink, wiping my eyes as if the fact that I haven't slept, fueled by hunger, is distorting the reality in front of me. I close the app,clear my phone’s cache, and open it again. Authenticating… $48.99 I'm so f****d. Now where do I begin?