Unravel by Samantha Romero Page A

to cry as the water continued to fall on my face. I hung my head, staring down at my lilac-painted toes. The water slowly dripped off the ends of my curls and the tears increased. I couldn’t stop crying; my whole body was shaking with sadness. I felt such an emptiness in my chest, that I grasped my breast in devastation, desperately trying to save my heart from the pain.
     
    God what a diva , I thought. I half expected a full orchestra to be sitting in the bathroom by the time I got out of the shower, ready to play some massive aria as I slowly died on the tiles.
     
    I wonder what time it is? I had been sitting at the bottom of the shower, hugging my knees as the water gently fell on my back, for what must have been over an hour.
     
    Isn’t it funny how one sad thought can lead to so many others, and then you find yourself stuck at the bottom of a dark rabbit hole, wondering if anyone will ever notice you and pull you back out to the light.
     
    I had been sad for so many reasons, most of them mainly to do with my own stupid insecurities. Clearly, I was still majorly hurting over my broken childhood, even though on most days, I shoved those feelings right to the back of my heart and managed to not even think about them or my father. I guess part of the yelling at Daniel had been me really wanting to yell at my father for all the crap he had put me through. Of course, I know that he hadn’t done anything to hurt me on purpose—it’s just that he hadn’t thought about me at all. He had only thought of himself and all the women he could—and did—seduce. Going through what Daniel had just done had taken me back to those exact, hollow feelings I had when I was a child—regurgitated them violently, like a spewing cat.
     
    I was six years old the day my father decided to divorce my mother and, ultimately, “us.” He wasn’t even man enough to front up and tell her to her face. Instead there had been a knock at the door. I remember skipping down the long, wooden hallway gleefully, and then struggling to open, what seemed back then, to be such a giant, heavy object. I thought the strange woman standing on the doorstep was from the police, and in my huge fantasy-filled mind, I imagined I must have done something wrong. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I threw myself on the couch in despair, hearing my mother explain to me that she had just been served divorce papers. I realized in those exact seconds that any fairytale I had hoped for was well and truly gone.
     
    Growing up, I tried desperately to be “good” around them. Always smiling, behaving—hoping that he would give up all his affairs and countless other women and realize that what he had at home was wonderful and special. But he didn’t. My mother once asked him if he would ever do things differently, considering how they had panned out.
     
    He smiled, “No. I’ve had a great life.” How thrilling for him. I wish I could have said the same about my childhood.
     

2
     
    Day after day passed, and the entire time it felt like it was raining. Of course, it wasn’t outside—each day the sun would still rise, playfully poking its head out from behind the clouds and shining across my bubble-covered hands as I washed up. But in my mind and heart, it was raining, pouring . The whole world had turned to blue in my eyes and the rose-tinted glasses I wore up until the age of six were now well and truly stomped on and broken.
     
    I opened the door. God I wish you would just stop. Stop all this. Another long stemmed red rose rested on the doormat. He had sent one every single day since I screamed at him in the rain. I wonder if this will send him broke? I thought. Haha—if only .
     
    Instead, day after day, the roses came.
     
    I sighed, shaking my head as I picked up the latest one and brought it inside. Time for my daily rose ceremony , I thought. It consisted of getting out the sharpest pair of scissors from the horribly messy drawer in the kitchenette,