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Every single picture gets taken off the walls and shredded by hand. At first, I’m frantically removing them. Ripping them off to wad up and throw them behind me. The ones in frames get smashed and stomped on. I have all thispainwith nowhere to go.

“No more of my trashy artwork. It’s all pathetic.”

I’m out of breath when I see my portfolio. All those damn photos I used to be so proud of. I can’t stand it. They get torn apart, too.

When I get to Asher’s photos, I take my time shredding them. I make sure there isn’t anything left to put back together. All I can think about is a clean slate. Over and over again. I have to have a clean slate so I can get better.

Nothing for anyone to look at. Nothing to point to and prove I’m just like my father. I want to erase everything, including myself.

The last picture of Asher trembles in my hands. The one tattoo I refused to color in. The flower over his heart. The one I’ve been waiting for him to figure out a color for that defines him in his own words.

He finally got it filled in. I thought it was a step forward. Turns out that forward momentum was another way to get away from my toxicity. He has no more reasons to come back here. No wonder it’s so easy to push me away. He doesn’t need me.

“No more waiting for Asher to say I love you back. No more desperate hugs, praying for him to reach out just once. I’m not worth it, and I never will be.”

I tear it all apart until there’s nothing left.

Ink bottles, opened and poured down the sink. Cleaner spread all over the place to cover up the smell of it, like I’m trying to bleach away my sins. My tattoo gun, bent and broken into pieces over the countertop. All swept into a trash can without ceremony.

Nothing for them to talk about. No evidence to point at and prove I’m evil. Nothing left.

I take the open sign down and break it into pieces. Watching it chip apart is somehow more satisfying than anything else.

The decision to close is suddenly easy. I don’t think I want to see this place ever again.

“Ibuilt this shop. No wonder it flopped.”

My phone keeps up with the non-stop buzzing. I’m catching my breath when I notice it shaking across the floor. I see the call log through the broken screen. I don’t even know when I dropped it. All calls from Damon and Grace. Nothing from Poe.

I duck behind the counter to hide as I sob. The phone gets powered off quickly and shoved aside.

I don’t know how long I sit there. I’m barely aware of anything. I’m too caught up in my spiral of self-hate.

A part of me is aching to cut my skin. Every time I think of finding something to do it with, an image of my thigh comes into my mind. How everyone has seen it and judged me for it. My worst fear came to life. It makes the urge worse and more shameful to give in to. If I do it, am I proving how evil I am? If I don’t, would anyone care?

The sound of glass shattering startles me out of my stupor. My knees ache and refuse to move for a second. I’m so emotionally exhausted, I barely look up at the crunching, hurried steps that race around the counter.

Poe stands at the separating door, out of breath as if he’s run all the way from LA. His clothes are disheveled, his bag and Racer in his hand. His hair is a wild snarl around his face. His eyes are locked on me.

“Addie.”

The way he says my name. It gets me every time. Like I’m some kind of salvation when I’m nothing.

I stand to pretend everything is normal. My acting skills aren’t up to the task. My knees hurt so bad I almost fall, and there’s a pins and needles sensation to let me know everything below my waist fell asleep at some point.

“Hey,” I manage to get out with a tight smile.

Everything drops from his hand as he moves past the separator. He takes three steps and stops again.

“What’s wrong, siren? Talk to me.Please.”

I swallow hard to get the dryness in my mouth out. It doesn’t work worth a damn. Everything inside and outside of me feels bruised.

“Maman called and told me about the site getting leaked.” One sentence to explain why my heart is scattered at my feet. I can’t make anything else come out. My voice is weak and hoarse from all my crying. I feel like I have a terminal illness that I’ll spread to him if he gets too close.

He takes that in with a furrow in his brow.

“Damon and Grace called me. I saw it.”