"Did you remember to pick up my dry cleaning?" Curtis's voice resonated from the other room, laced with impatience and an underlying sense of entitlement.
Calla pinched the bridge of her nose, her fingertips slick with the cool water she had just used to scrub the bathroom sink. "You never gave me the ticket," she replied, her voice steeped in frustration, each word clipped like the staccato of an argument they'd had far too often.
"Seriously?" he called back, his tone sharpening, slicing through the thick air like a knife. She could feel a familiar disappointment settling between them, as tangible as the dirty clothes piled in the corner. "You always forget the important stuff. How am I supposed to wear that shirt tonight?"
Calla fell silent, the words lodged uncomfortably in her throat. She wiped the sink again, even though it sparkled under the overhead light, radiating like polished porcelain. Not a single stray strand of Curtis's beard hair remained, a casualty of his careless grooming.
As he stepped into the room, his cologne washed over her—a heavy, cloying scent that permeated the air, unmistakably his signature application too liberal for her taste. The tension crackled between them, heavy and palpable, as if they occupied the same space but were light-years apart. He finished buttoning his plain black shirt, the fabric stretching taut against his muscular frame, before sliding a dark belt through the loops of his fitted jeans with practiced ease.
"I don't get why you're being so sensitive. I've got plans with the guys. You always make it weird," he said dismissively, tossing her concerns aside like an unwanted piece of trash.
"I didn't say anything," she countered softly, barely above a whisper, though the weight of the unspoken words lingered heavily in the air.
There was no point in engaging further; it was always entrapment. If she sought clarification, he twisted her words, casting accusations that left her reeling. If she remained silent, like today, he still found fault lurking in her muted expression.
"Exactly. That's the problem. It's your tone. You've been off lately," he charged, his gaze narrowing with scrutiny, probing for insecurities he could exploit.
Calla offered a hollow smile, a frail mask that barely concealed the turmoil brewing inside her. "You mean exhausted?"
He rolled his eyes, a movement so dismissive it felt like a slap. He snatched his wallet off the counter with a flick of his wrist, the action quick and polished like a well-rehearsed routine. "Don't wait up. I'm staying at Rob's. Too much booze to drive back, and God knows I don't need you lecturing me again."
Her heart plummeted as he strode purposefully toward the door, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor, each step a reminder of his indifference. She didn't respond; it felt pointless. By the time he was halfway out, he had already left behind a suffocating cloud of arrogance and an olfactory assault reminiscent of gym socks mingled with stale air.
The lock clicked shut with a finality that resonated in the silence, and Calla exhaled deeply, feeling a weight lift from her weary shoulders.
For a fleeting moment, she stood enveloped in the quiet, absorbing it like a warm embrace after an unyielding storm.
But the peace was short-lived. As she stepped into the main living area, the open layout exposed the chaos Curtis had abandoned in the kitchen—a storm of clutter surrounding her like a physical echo of their discord. Shoes were strewn haphazardly, a wet towel lay draped carelessly over the floorboards, and a glass filled with protein sludge sat forgotten on the stove, its fetid odor an unwelcome assault on her senses.
"Just once," she muttered under her breath, "I want to come home and not have it smell like gym socks and broken promises."
With a heavy sigh, she began to tackle the mess. The trash can overflowed yet again, its contents spilling forth like an unwanted secret, while used tissues littered the countertop, stained with blood from Curtis's latest shaving mishap. He seemed utterly incapable of cleaning up after himself; it was as if staying in one room while getting ready was a challenge he simply couldn't meet. His neglect extended beyond the bathroom and kitchen, manifesting in every corner of their shared life.
Halfway to the laundry basket, her gaze drifted to the loose floorboard beneath the bookshelf—the one that always beckoned her with a subtle, magnetic pull.
She hadn't touched the book in days—not since she'd attempted a simple herbal charm that had sent her into a fit of sneezing for an embarrassingly long ten minutes. Yet now, some inexplicable force urged her forward, a silent insistence tugging at her like the gentle pull of a current. Her feet moved of their own accord, and the creaky board shifted easily beneath her weight. With a surge of urgency, she lifted the plank and pulled the book free. Instantly, the air around her seemed to thrum with tension, a sensation almost electric as the tome brushed against her palms.
Every time she delved into the grimoire, she felt a tantalizing whisper of magic curling around her thoughts, yet she was acutely aware that it was likely just a figment of her imagination—a fragile thread connecting her to her grandmother, a woman she had never met but who loomed large in her mind.
Her fingers traced the cracked leather cover, her thumb gliding over a corner worn smooth by time and reverent fingertips. As she opened it gently, she anticipated the usual coded pages filled with herbal lore and echoes of whispered grief. Instead, she discovered a single aged sheet of paper, startlingly out of place amid the contemporary binding occupying her lap. The header read: "Life Aide: For Those Drowning..."
A flicker of amusement mixed with disbelief danced across her lips; she couldn't quite discern which emotion prevailed.
This isn't one of my spells.
The ingredients listed were oddly specific:
- Frankincense10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdZlRRB75ah
- Myrrh10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLBWlj4gBw2
- Three Red Candles10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLOV51xRLlR
- One Brown Candle10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtXYrbKzJic
- A drop of your blood10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKZh3OPoaW6
- A pinch of Red Dust
At the bottom of the page, written in delicate ink, were the words: "The most enduring ties are forged in trust. Speak your truth and offer your essence without reservation."
ns216.73.216.82da2
