Chapter Text
Charlyne Yates was hard to live with.
She wasn't even pretty to make up for it. Mousy face, dishwater hair. Shrill voice. She was twenty-seven now, not young, and not getting younger. Small tits, fat thighs, and the start of a gut. She got acne on her jaw every month before she had her period. She had ugly teeth. She didn't smile enough, and it looked weird when she did, like some nightmare wearing a happy person's face. People told her this.
So she didn't smile much, and she was getting wrinkles from scowling. People told her that, too.
The worst thing about her was that she got way too emotional. Just irrationally upset over nothing at completely random times, when everyone else was having a good day. She had a drinking problem too, which didn't help her terrible memory. Sometimes she'd get drunk and make things up and accuse people of doing awful things. Or she'd be fine with something one minute and change her mind the next.
She told blatant lies, too. Just real ballsy shit. Like the time she cheated on her boyfriend.
Darryl had picked up her phone to check the weather. He had big hands, big fingers. Her phone looked small in them. The tips were yellow-brown with nicotine. "What the fuck is this?" he asked.
"What?" she said, like she didn't know.
"Who's Brandon?" he demanded. He had a wide mouth. He showed a lot of teeth when he scowled. A lot of gum. A thick layer of spit that flew off in little droplets when he was mad.
"Brandon from work?" Charlyne asked. "What did he say?" She reached out to look at the message, but Darryl pulled the phone back from her.
"Don't act stupid," he said, glaring down at her. His blood was rising red under his skin. Yellow light of the kitchen. Gray tiles. Yellow fingers, big, square teeth. A mouth wrinkled in disgust at her. "He doesn't talk like a guy from work. Lot of emojis for a guy from work."
"I don't—" She tried to interrupt him.
"You're fucking him, aren't you?" Darryl screamed, stepping into her face, looming over her so she could smell his breath. He hated being interrupted.
"What? No!" She grabbed for the phone again.
She always claimed she didn't remember slapping him. She said she was just going for the phone. She was a shitty liar.
Darryl had to hold her down. She was completely hysterical. The phone was broken at that point, cracked through the screen and splintered, with its guts spilling out of the seams. It fell on the kitchen tiles when she attacked him.
She tried to walk out the door. She kept screaming, "Let me go! Let me go!" but he couldn't let her out on the street in a state like that. She could've hurt herself, or someone else. She was probably drunk.
She got drunker that night. Out came the vodka. First from a glass, then from the bottle. Then came the waterworks. Big stupid tears, as predictable as a crying doll. Put the clear liquor in her, and it'll come out her eyes.
She acted like the biggest victim in the world because her boyfriend didn't want her fucking other men. They argued for hours. It was three in the morning before she finally said she was sorry.