“Kyle?” I knew it deep down to my soul that my ex, my attacker, was on the line. The sensation of acid burning my skin filtered through every pore as I held the receiver tighter and tried not to be frightened.
Breathe, Monet. Breathe. He doesn’t control you.
“You know, Monet, I have dreamed every night about slitting your throat and watching you bleed out onto the concrete floor of that garage.”
I reached for my neck on instinct. My throat tightened and I slammed my hand against the wall, trying to breathe and calm down. “No, Kyle, no. Why?” The words were small, childlike, and filled with sorrow.
He chuckled as though what he was doing was nothing more than a sick game. “Monet, you stupid cunt. I told you. That money you have should have been ours. You’re just wasting it away on that beaker baby and that fucktard friend of yours. You’re probably buying her bullshit art now too.”
I clenched my teeth, my entire body now shaking uncontrollably. “I gave you everything,” I choked out, gripping the phone as hard as I could even though I wanted to smash it against the wall. He’d been my husband, the man I opened my heart and body to.