(Writing this was like waking up from a nightmare about my partner cheating and then being mad at him all day for something he did in a dream, and I chose this picture because I’m finna slap the shit out of Melone after this.)
Melone reasoned that his date wouldn’t mind if he was a couple minutes late.
Everything was perfectly set into place. The night was young, balmy, perfect for cuddling close to his special someone. The restaurant was close enough that he could see the flower shop where you worked very clearly from the window. At the table he’d reserved, he knew exactly which way to tilt the chair he sat in so that he could keep an eye on your form at all times, and intended to sneak glances at you throughout the night so he could gloat at the fact that his life was still perfect, and yours was as miserable as he hoped for. It wouldn’t hurt to keep his new flame waiting a little while. She might even be touched, he thought as he strolled boldly into the shop and heard the tinkling of the bell, if he walked in like a prince with a beautiful spray of your favorite flowers to give her. It had to be all of the ones that were your favorites, the same make of bouquet he’d ordered nearly every week to keep you happy. He had to make a statement. Otherwise how else would you know he was doing well?
You had been many things. Faithful. Honest. Receptive. It had only taken you a matter of days, maybe even hours, to accept that Melone was your one true love even though you didn’t know it at first. Months of careful planning and building of your love nest paid off, and it was quite painfully obvious that you enjoyed these passed few years being his kept woman, as he put it lightly. You were a good girl, so obedient, doing whatever he asked without question and even with a smile towards the end when he began losing interest. Unfortunately you were also stubborn, hence why Melone had let the punishment go on for too long.
Truth be told he thought he’d been rather generous that last day. He felt he had to, it was at least fair he treat you kindly in your last day captive in the home he bought for you. It made up for the languid looks up other women’s skirts, the audacity of ogling endless trains of rear ends, ankles and breasts, entering chat rooms to look at bare pictures and post them until one day someone replied back at him just as intensely as he commented. It was only fair he give you one days break from domestic duties. Usually you did the cooking and the cleaning, rising early before the sun came up to make your “husband” something to eat, but he’d decided to surprise you that morning. Let it be known in the records that Melone could cook quite the sumptuous feast for breakfast, and he made sure the omelette came out nice and fluffy, and that the pancakes stayed warm by keeping the syrup on the side, or that the bacon was crisp and the fruit without blemish. Even the orange juice was good, squeezed fresh with a hint of Prosecco, and the coffee was pour over, Melone taking great pains to get the coffee grounds just so that the flavor exploded in your mouth even with the addition of cream and sugar. You were quite surprised when he’d brought it all to you on a tray in bed that you didn’t even register the indifference he had, not bothering to feed you like he usually would and just letting you savor everything until you were full.
“Was it good?” He asked, your name a trill and a light note to begin on.
And then he smiled a saccharine toothy grin as you agreed, praising him and thanking him for spoiling you.
“Good. Because it’s the last meal you’re ever going to have in this house. I want you out before the sun sets.”
“Good evening! I’d like a bouquet please.”
The cashier smiled at him, asked what he liked and set to work filling the order. Melone was almost disappointed that he didn’t call you to the front to work on it yourself, but he didn’t let it show and only met the other man with a smile. This person was one of your coworkers, blissfully unaware that the man before him was the monster that had ripped you from your happy home and completely brainwashed you into making one with him, having only torn you away from it five months ago. It had been hilariously funny to Melone, seeing you trying to reintegrate into society like a helpless idiot. Your coworkers treated you like a simpleton, your paycheck merely a grudging kindness they didn’t have the courage to put an end to. He saw you by chance on the street after the third month of your break up, and you’d been more of a mess than the first night he held you captive. You were fearful of everything around you, comically wide eyed and avoided nearly every attempt at human interaction. Your hair was unkempt, your clothes wrinkled, dark circles under your eyes and you looked as though you hadn’t eaten properly since that last breakfast. Melone had to stifle the laughter in his throat, a sick sense of pleasure filling his tummy as he followed you just out of sight that day. You looked everywhere, wandering in circles around the streets before eventually finding your way into the flower shop where you worked before he met you. Sometimes he checked on you, content to see you miserable as ever working for less than minimum wage, but never once did he bother to see where you were living now.
Probably in a cardboard box in the alley for all I care… he’d thought with a wicked smile.
Those first three months after Melone had quite literally booted you out onto the street were bliss, everything was quiet around the house, he had endless evenings talking to his new flame and hearing her lilting voice comment hotly on all the things she’d do to him once she came abroad. She wasn’t even from Italy, just someone he met online before he broke up with you, telling him she knew how these things worked out and she’d give him time to admire her from afar until he was completely over it. Even though he kept insisting at the begging and whining for her affection, he waited patiently for the fateful phone call that came five months later: she was ready to come to him at last.
He scrambled at the last minute to get the house perfect, rearranging furniture, thankful that your things had long since been thrown out. Even the Junior you’d produced with his Stand had been eliminated a month prior to his date. It used to infuriate him, seeing it look at the frosted glass of the front door as though it was looking for traces of you still clawing desperately, screaming to be let in. God help him, the Junior even pined for you, wondering why Melone wouldn’t just let you come back to live with them and destroying things when he tried to insist that a new mommy would come to take your place. The Junior had thrown a fit before the computerized Baby Face had taken action, and your Junior’s death had been a sick sort of closure for the assassin.
“Don’t open that door.” Melone had told your Junior during the breakup, in more of a giddy coo than the anger he felt hearing you crying for him to please let you back inside.
“… Mommy is out there.” Your Junior had told him, as if he’d missed it. “She’s crying. She’s cold. Why can’t I let her in?”
The sneer he gave your Junior must have set the seeds of rebellion into growth, because he still remembered the look of frustration it gave him.
“She’s not your mommy, she’s what’s called a ‘problem’. And do you know what we do with problems?”
“… no?”
“We work through them. Chase her away, make her afraid to go near that goddamn door. I don’t want her setting foot in this neighborhood ever again.”
Melone was snapped out of his thoughts of the past as the cashier happily handed over the aforementioned bouquet, wishing him a good night and shocking the assassin with the abruptness. He found himself so shocked he left without trying at least to drag the conversation on in the hopes that you’d hear his voice and come running.
This wouldn’t do… he thought, bringing him to his current predicament of waiting out of sight behind the dumpster of the restaurant. This wouldn’t do at all…
Melone knew what he wanted. He wanted to approach you when you left for work. He wanted to make himself known. He wanted pain. He wanted a scene. He wanted your tears and screaming and crying, craved it like a shot of liquid courage to steel his nerves for his proper first date. He didn’t feel these butterflies when he met you, only felt a sense of calm, and he needed some of that to quell the anxieties he felt. You were good for some things after all, he begrudgingly decided. And what better way for a bookended closure than to use you for a last dose of peace before he began what would most certainly be a romantic beginning to living a brand new happy life with the beautiful woman he’d courted for so long.
“Have a good evening sweetie. Do you need any help with those presents?”
He heard the telltale tentative steps of your footfall before he saw you, and he snapped his head up to see your coworker loading you up with a large cardboard box, helping you adjust to the weight of it as you both exited the shop. You were bundled up in an old puffy coat, clearly a donation, your hair pulled back into a bun and combed for once.
You shook your head, avoiding speaking directly and opting to look at the box in your hands instead of his eyes.
“Are you ok to walk home?”
Silence. A nod in the affirmative.
“You’ll let me know if you need anything?”
Affirmative silence.
There wasn’t anything else left to say. The first look Melone got up close was already disappointing and not boding well for his date. If he didn’t do something now, you would already be out of sight and long gone before he had a chance to use you one last time. Already you were backing away, not even bothering to thank your friend nor even wanting to bid him goodnight as that familiar lost look settled over your face. Melone cursed at the stupidity of your coworker, unable to follow you as long as he stood there watching you go. How hard was it to just cut the cord? He wondered, and finally cursing in an exhale of breath when your coworker returned to his place in the shop, allowing Melone to emerge from his hiding place to follow your journey home.
His date wouldn’t mind if he was a few minutes late, he reasoned. Your house couldn’t be that far, and he had flowers. It would be so nice to get your hopes up and then crash them down, it would make his pining for his true love all the more sweeter.
You walked slowly. Seeing without seeing. Hearing without hearing anything as you made the long journey home laden with your large box. There was a slight limp in your step when you walked, and Melone knew with a sickening satisfactory smile that it was courtesy of your own Junior taking the setting foot part literally. He walked a few car lengths behind you. Quiet as a mouse, even with the noise of the flowers wrapped in cellophane. But then again with how out of it you seemed Melone could have been accompanied by a goddamn marching band and you wouldn’t have noticed anything.
After a few minutes he began to get antsy. What the hell… how far away did you live from work? Were you just leading him in your typical circles, looking around for something like a helpless puppy that lost its mother? He didn’t know what you could be looking for, stupid and blind as he’d become by love he couldn’t figure out why you kept stopping, looking everywhere but behind you, then continuing onward painfully slow as though you had no regard for his commitments.
Melone needed no reminder of why he decided to leave.
Finally, when he was sure he should just nut up and turn back without his dose of courage, he saw you arrive at a slum of an apartment complex. Of course you’d be living here, you couldn’t afford house payments on what they paid you at your old job. Couldn’t afford the luxury of the house he bought for you. Not without Passione’s money. It amused him. When left to your own devices you couldn’t even provide a basic pedestrian life. You lived like a dog if left alone.
He formulated a plan. First he’d call out your name sweetly, like he used to, then when you turned around he’d hold the flowers in his hands in such a way that you’d think it was in offering. You would cry, he was sure, and just as you ran to him and reached for the flowers he’d pull them away and duck just out of reach. If he timed it right, and his foot flashed out at just the right time, he’d be able to see you fall and hear you scream out for him as he walked away and back to the restaurant. It was foolproof, and he began to open his mouth.
You turned to one of the ground floor doors, merely turned the door knob, and entered the unlocked apartment that was bathed in darkness.
There was one window in the living space, and when the light turned on it flooded the dark street. You didn’t even have curtains, just had one window facing the street and that was all. On the floor of the apartment was a dingy mattress, shoved in the corner, a thin sheet bunched up on the floor. There weren’t any decorations. No pictures on the walls. No chairs or table. Not even a plant from work. You still had the box in your arms as you stood in the middle of the bare room, looking around, as though you were unsure you’d entered the right place. Melone just watched, unreadable, as you finally set the box down and began to unload its contents.
A package of diapers. Two bottles. A soft blanket. A teddy bear. Some powdered formula. You both stared at them for a long, long time. He only saw the tiny cradle by the mattress when you unzipped your coat, because the bulge under your shirt had grazed it slightly as you bent to lay the teddy bear inside of it. You didn’t react at all. Just sat down at the edge of your mattress and looked at the things your coworker had given you. A hand, from this distance Melone could see how rough and chapped it was, rubbed the bulge of your stomach as you quietly contemplated the things before you.
“Oh…” he whispered.
It was now he realized: you hadn’t even locked the front door.
Oh.
You reached for your jacket, wrapping it around your shoulders. It was too puffy for him to have seen.
Oh no.
You always worked with your back to the door. The plants covered your lower body, you weren’t tall enough for any part other than your head to stick out.
Oh no…
You didn’t move to make anything to eat. You just sat there.
Unblinking.
Lost.
“Oh no…” Melone choked.
The flowers were beautiful, petals scattered all over the street as they dropped from his hands.
What had he done… What had he done?
…
You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t leave the door unlocked at night for the last five months with just the slightest bit of hope.
You lived life purely with hopes riding on being rescued. Taken away from this pain. You wanted to be taken up in thin strong arms, coddled and protected, reassured with that soft voice that everything would be ok.
Days turned into nights, thence into weeks, thence into months, thence into eternity.
He never came.
Did you start losing hope? Yes. The items before you proved that. Everything was real. It wasn’t a dream. Life was going on without you, he was going on without you, everything was constantly spinning and spiraling out of control and you were left helpless in the middle of all of it, your own body betraying you and refusing to wait to let you catch up.
What did you do to deserve this?
Whatever you did… you wouldn’t do it again. Never. Never ever would you act out of line if if meant you’d be cast out like yesterday’s garbage.
The world goes on without you, and leaves you behind. You can’t hear anything. Can’t feel the gurgle of your stomach or the kicks demanding a meal. There isn’t anything tonight. You don’t have enough for meat, all that’s in the fridge is milk that went bad yesterday and the last slice of bread. Besides you can’t find the strength to get up and feed yourself. You’re not used to having no direction in which to turn.
Your stomach growls, but you’re not hungry.
You live life hearing nothing.
Seeing nothing.
Hardly able to process what’s happening around you.
The door opens and slams against the wall but you don’t hear it.
Footsteps hurry toward you, but you can’t feel their slams against the floor.
Someone drags you up by the arms off the mattress, but it doesn’t matter anymore. You stopped feeling when he broke your foot, never got it treated properly, the pain doesn’t register.
The only reaction you have is to the voice that calls out to you, begging, pleading, just like you did all those months before.
“Please…! Please! Forgive me. Amore please!”
You look up. Wide eyed. Heart aching.
“… Melone?”
It all hits you at once, the senses return, and he has to catch you to prevent you from falling headlong into it.
