Page 113 of Trailer Park Billionaire

And I hate that even after everything, my body doesn’t care.

So I start touching myself. Not because I want to. Not because I think it’ll feel good. Just because I need to feel something—anything—that isn’t this black, howling grief clawing through my ribs.

My fingers trail over skin that feels too cold, too raw. I shut my eyes and try to imagine it’s his hand instead. His mouth. The warmth of his breath across my stomach, the weight of his body over mine. I try to picture how he used to touch me like I was something sacred.

I press harder. I shift. I go through the motions.

But there’s nothing. No pleasure. No heat. No release. Just the stinging behind my eyes and the tightness in my throat.

And then I’m crying.

Pathetically. Stupidly.

Tears soaking into the pillow, into the sheets that still smell like him—scotch and sandalwood and something warmer beneath. Even his absence has better cologne than all the people I’ve had in my bed before him.

And now I can’t even touch myself without remembering how it felt when he did it.

How safe I felt.

How much I trusted him.

How badly I needed to believe that maybe—for once—someone would stay with me.

But he didn’t stay.

He played pretend.

He used me. Lied to me. Betrayed me.

I curl in tighter, fingers limp against my stomach, body hollow. All that’s left is anger and shame, layered over my grief like barbed wire.

I look at the empty bed next to me.

Who knew betrayal had such a talent for negative space?

God, I am a fucking idiot.

I knew better.

I have always known better.

This is why I don’t let people in. This is why I keep everyone at arm’s length. Because the second I drop my guard, they make you care and then they leave. Or lie. Or betray me in ways that make my skin feel too tight and my chest like it’s caving in.

Eventually I give up. I roll over. I stare at the ceiling some more. Then I sit up, slowly, like I am the same age as all my neighbors. I feel like it too.

I look at the forgery in the other room. Still propped on the easel like some kind of ticking bomb.

Maybe I’ve been standing too close to solvent fumes all my life. Maybe that’s why I keep making decisions like this. Bad ones.

I should destroy it. Rip it to shreds. Set it on fire and continue my next prison stint early. Because that’s where I’ll end up now anyway. Eventually. Just like my grandpa.

I don’t do that though.

Because… I’m scared.

Because I know what his brother—that terrifying bastard—might do to me. If I don’t finish the painting today, another black eye would be the least of my worries. Even prison might be a better outcome.

So I work on the forgery.