Chapter Thirty

                                    

                                          
I struggled a lot with this chapter, and I hope I did an okay job. I was listening to 'The Figurehead' by The Cure while I was writing most of it, and it felt very fitting to Clara's mental state (as you'll be able to tell, I stole some of the lyrics (; ). Thank you for the Godtier support. Pls pls pls remember to like and comment! 
I couldn't help but stare into the pile of clothing before me. I had a taste so sour, I had to think of something sweet, but it hardly made a difference.
Every passing second, more tears would well up behind my eyes. They felt sharp and open, dry, yet tears were spilling from them like a nagging, continuous storm. Lightheaded and nauseous, I'd never felt this angry and utterly destroyed before. 
I blinked and desperately tried to continued the task at hand, but my hands were frozen and cold, wrapped around the soft fabric of some blouse.
The thought of ripping it in half crossed my mind, but that wouldn't solve a single damn thing. 
My mind was clouded by the previous night. What hurt the most was to think that he was probably going about his day without so much as a care in the world. Without my name crossing his mind for even a moment. 
He always seemed to handle conflict a lot better than me. Even when he was the one that stormed out. 
I tried to blink my way out of my chaotic thoughts, but each blink would reveal the last image I had of him, leaving. 
I was a mess. The large amount of makeup that I'd used to disguise the evidence of my tears had the opposite effect. I was well aware of the dark streaks that painted my face like a zebra as I sat in the backroom of the store, sorting new stock.
I'd been there all day, adding tags and folding shirts to the best of my ability. Rose only came to check on me once or twice after I'd made it clear that all I needed was some time alone. 
In the blink of an eye, weeks of progress turned into the deepest heartache I'd ever felt. What did I expect? That everything would change and that he would want to tell everyone the truth, just to be with me? 
Surly the Freddie I knew would never do that. Not for me. Perhaps I was selfish for wanting him to risk it all. 
The thought of him felt cold. I'd been staring at the pile of clothing for so long, it felt like I had ice in my eyes, eyes like ice that couldn't move from the task before me. They were painfully open, but shutting them hurt even more. 
Part of me wanted to never see him again, another part (a much bigger part) wanted to storm to his flat and scream at him. I wanted to hurt him back, and I wanted to comfort him. 
Part of me hoped and wished that he felt as heartbroken as me, but it was met by an ounce of doubt. Surely he was going just fine. 
I'd been debating going over there for hours. Every time I was about to grab my things and leave, I'd take a deep breath and calm myself down. I knew that I wasn't in the right state of mind to see him. 
But every time I thought about him leaving, my anger would spike and all rationality would fly out the window. 
I couldn't believe that I begged him to stay, that I wanted to talk things out and find a solution, and he just left. He acted like I broke his heart, like he was the victim when all I wanted was to stay there with him for just a while longer. Part of me wanted to agree to his suggestion. To lie, just to be with him. 
I was becoming livid just thinking about it, and this time, I acted before I could stop myself. I felt sick and disgusted. I couldn't stand to think that he was at home, continuing with his life as normal after he hurt me.