The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

"I'm leaving," Cristina said. Her voice was steady, though her knees felt like water. "Just like you asked." Jackson kicked a cardboard box out of his way. It slid across the floor and hit the wall with a thud. "I didn't tell you to destroy the house." He walked toward her, shedding his wet coat. As he pulled it off, a stack of photographs fell from the inside pocket. They scattered across the polished floor like a deck of cards. Cristina looked down. She couldn't help it. They were photos of Jackson and Davida. In Paris. In Milan. In Tokyo. Dates stamped in the corner corresponded to the weeks Jackson had been away on "crucial business trips." She crouched down and picked one up. It was a close-up of them laughing, their foreheads touching. On the back, in Jackson's handwriting: My reason for breathing. "Give me those," Jackson snapped. He lunged forward and snatched the photo from her hand. "You took her with you," Cristina said. She felt sick. A physical wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. "All those times I was here, managing the company accounts, handling the press... you were on vacation with her." "She needed treatments," Jackson lied. His face flushed. "Specialists in Europe." "In front of the Eiffel Tower?" Cristina pointed to another photo on the floor. "Is that where the clinic is?" Jackson didn't answer. He shoved the photos into his pocket. "It doesn't matter. It's over." Cristina backed away from him. She bumped into the glass door leading to the terrace. Hanging there was a mobile she had made three years ago. A thousand paper cranes. She had folded them when Jackson was in the hospital for pneumonia. Legend said a thousand cranes granted a wish. Her wish had been for him to live. "You always hated these," Cristina said. She reached up and grabbed the main string. "I hated them because they were clutter," Jackson said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her high-collared coat. "Just like those ridiculous sweaters you always wore, hiding in the corner, folding trash. You were always so... concealed. It was suffocating." She yanked. The string snapped. Paper birds rained down around them. Pink, blue, yellow. They fluttered to the floor, innocent and pathetic. Jackson looked at the mess. "You're acting crazy." "Crazy?" Cristina laughed. She grabbed a handful of the cranes. She walked to the kitchen counter where she had left the shredder she used for documents. She turned it on. The machine whirred to life. "These were my prayers for you," she said. She dropped the first crane into the teeth of the machine. It screeched as it chewed the paper. "Don't," Jackson said. He looked disturbed. Cristina kept feeding them in. One by one. Then handful by handful. The noise was deafening in the quiet apartment. "Stop it!" Jackson shouted. He reached for her arm. Cristina spun around, holding the shears she had used on the painting. She didn't raise them, but she held them tight. "Don't touch me," she whispered. Her eyes were dead. "Trash belongs in the trash, Jackson." Jackson recoiled. He looked at her as if he didn't recognize her. The submissive, quiet wife was gone. Cristina turned back to the shredder. She grabbed the last pile of cranes. As she shoved them in, the sharp edge of the stiff paper sliced her index finger. Blood welled up, bright red. It dripped onto the white pile of shredded paper. She didn't flinch. She didn't put the finger in her mouth. She just watched the blood fall. Jackson stared at the blood. He looked like he wanted to help, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The guilt was there, fleetingly, on his face, before he masked it with anger. "Fine," he said. He grabbed his wet coat. "If you want to bleed, bleed alone." He turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. Cristina waited until the elevator dinged. Then, her legs gave out. She slid down the kitchen cabinets until she hit the floor, sitting amongst the shredded remains of her prayers and the drops of her own blood.