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dirty villain standalone version
LEXI ARCHER
one
I step through the front door, the weight of the day clinging to my shoulders like an unwelcome shadow. The click of the lock echoes in the empty hallway, and the scent of vanilla and lavender—Derrick’s favorite scents—wafts through the air. Exhaustion courses through my veins, a relentless reminder of the demanding hours spent unraveling financial puzzles at the accounting firm. Working as a forensic accountant is rewarding, but the hours can be long.
The clock on the wall ticks away, a constant reminder that time is not on my side. He'll be home soon—my husband. The mere thought of Derrick’s arrival quickens my pulse, urging me to move faster.
In the kitchen, I glance at the clock once more, my heart racing against its ticking hands. Maybe against my better judgment, I’m going to make a new recipe, cabbage roll skillet. Angela, a coworker, gave me. She actually gave it to me years ago, and I saw her briefly in the hallway today, jogging my memory. At one point, we used to be close, hanging out after work, but so much has changed after Derrick and I married.
So much.
Mostly me.
It doesn’t take me long at all to sprawl out the ingredients across the countertop, a chaotic mosaic awaiting transformation. I roll up my sleeves, the cool air of the kitchen a fleeting reprieve from the tension building within me.
With practiced efficiency, I chop vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board a soothing cadence. My mind races, calculating not just the dynamics of our night but also the delicate balance of tonight's dinner and his potentially volatile mood.
The sizzle of oil in the pan sends a jolt of urgency through me. I steal glances at the clock, the minutes slipping away like sand through my fingers. The aroma of spices fills the air, an attempt to mask the palpable tension that lingers.
As the final touches come together—lit candles, an already open beer can for him, our plates and silverware ready and waiting—I hear the distant hum of a car engine. Panic sets in, an unwelcome companion. I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, my eyes flicking toward the clock once more. The seconds tick by, each one amplifying the apprehension that tightens my chest.
The door swings open, and I turn to face him, a forced smile masking the dread beneath. "Welcome home," I say, my voice a carefully crafted melody, concealing the dissonance within.
Tonight, like every night, I navigate the delicate dance of preparing dinner and catering to my husband’s every whim, hoping it will be enough to appease the storm that always follows his entrance.
His entrance sends a shiver down my spine, and I can sense the storm clouds gathering in the set of his jaw. I greet him with another tentative smile, but it goes unnoticed as he brushes past me without a word.
Dinner, carefully prepared in haste, sits on the table like an offering. I watch anxiously as he takes a seat, the tension thickening the air. He chugs down his beer, and I should go and get him another. I’m still standing, after all, but since this is a new meal, I’m eager and hopeful, desperate to see Derrick’s reaction.
My husband spears a piece of food with his fork, lifts it to his mouth, and I hold my breath. The room falls silent as he chews, his expression darkening with each passing second. The taste of dread lingers on my tongue as he abruptly spits the morsel back onto his plate. The metallic clatter of the fork against porcelain is the only sound in the room.
His eyes, cold and accusatory, lock onto mine. "What is this?" he snarls, the question laced with contempt.
Panic claws at my throat, but I swallow it down, mustering a shaky composure. "I tried something new," I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you might like it. You like cabbage and…"
A harsh laugh escapes him, more a bark than genuine amusement. "Like it? This is garbage."
Without another word, he pushes the plate away so hard that its contents spill across the table. Stifling a sigh, he stands abruptly, the screech of the chair against the floor amplifying the tension in the room.
"Clean this mess up," he orders, his tone brooking no argument.
I nod, my eyes trained on the floor rather than the retreating figure as he storms upstairs. The distant sound of water running for the shower follows, a tumultuous symphony to accompany the knot tightening in my stomach. The dining room and the adjoining kitchen, once a haven of hurried activity, now feel stiflingly silent.
After a few quick blinks, I begin the thankless task of clearing the remnants of the failed dinner, my hands moving mechanically. The echo of his dissatisfaction resonates in my ears, a haunting refrain. Tonight, like countless others, I'll navigate the treacherous aftermath, praying for a reprieve from the storm that rages within these walls.
But why? Why does this have to be my life?
The realization hits me like a thunderclap—a sudden, deafening certainty that this can't go on. I can't endure the relentless cycle of fear, anger, and disappointment any longer. My hands tremble as I reach a breaking point, the decision firming like steel in my soul.
It’s not as if I haven’t thought about this before even if I’ve been too scared to actually take that next step. I've already squirreled away money, a lifeline carefully woven in secret. Tonight, the threads of escape pull tight, urging me to break free from the suffocating chains that bind me to this life. The bedroom door creaks open, and I slip inside, my heart pounding in my ears.
The bag, packed with essentials and the remnants of a life I once cherished, waits patiently by the closet. I glance at the bed, where he's immersed in the shower, the watery cascade a dull roar against my thoughts. This is it. The last straw.
A newfound resolve steadies my hands as I zip up the bag. I've rehearsed this moment countless times in my mind, the escape plan etched into my consciousness. The weight of the bag feels both daunting and empowering, a physical manifestation of my determination to sever ties.
I cast a fleeting look around the room, taking in the familiar surroundings with a mix of nostalgia and detachment. This chapter of my life is ending, and a fresh one awaits beyond the threshold.
