EMPTY
This short story is a work of fiction, written for a Emo Duel LitNight on TikTok.
***
Why does life always keep marching forward? Even when you wish you could stop it for a moment, for a single breath when you know with absolute certainty it is about to fall apart. And you see your husband’s truck parked outside of Motel 6.
The truth had been circling me for years, patiently waiting for me to finally look at it without turning away. It stood here now, solid and undeniable, in the shape of his truck beneath a dying neon sign.
I remember when I bought you that truck for your birthday. You stood in the driveway like a boy handed something he never thought he’d afford, keys in your hand, asking me three times if it was too much. I told you we would make it work and I did make it work.
This motel was smaller than most, almost modest in its decay, which made it easier. Fewer doors. Fewer places to hide. Fewer lies left to step around.
I asked myself on repeat while I drove here, why I chose to come. Why did I not ignore it like I had so many times before? Why did I keep letting you to come home with another story? Let you wash your hands in my sink and sit at my table and kiss our children goodnight like nothing had been taken from me hours before.
All your lies turned into knives. I learned how to cook dinner with them. Learned how to sleep beside you with them pressing into my ribs. Learned how to smile in photographs with steel under my skin.
But tonight, everything shifted. And I still had no idea why.
I just had no more places left to store another lie.
I stepped out of the car and closed the door with care, as though I were arriving somewhere important. In a way, I was.
The front desk attendant barely looked at me. We shared the same last name. That has always been enough to open doors for you and five minutes later I stood outside the room, key card in hand, listening.
The sounds from inside were unmistakable. Female moans and male groans filled my brain.
I remember the first apartment we had. Thin walls. You used to worry the neighbors could hear us. You would laugh into my neck and tell me to be quiet. I tried.
“Here we go, Trish… no turning back now.”
I unlocked the door.
It opened without a sound and the bodies on the bed did not stop.
Not even for a moment.
Two, tangled and urgent, moving like nothing in the world existed beyond that bed. They did not see me walk in, nor saw me sit in that far corner chair. They did not see me watch the man I built give himself to someone else, touching her, pumping into her.
What was I doing here? Why did I not scream?
I just watched and no words came.
I was taken aback by how you worshiped her. The patience in your hands. The care in your movements. The attention I asked for in quiet conversations that always ended with me apologizing for wanting too much.
You told me I was strange. You told me I might be addicted to sex. How could someone be addicted to something if it only happened once a year?
So, I stopped asking.
Now you were giving it to her like it cost you nothing.
The sounds grew louder. Careless. And I sat there, letting them fill the room with it. I wished my eyes would start bleeding so I could look away without choosing to. My life felt like it was bleeding out in that chair, and I still did not move.
I tilted my head, trying to see her face. It stayed hidden behind her hair heavy dark hair. Her face didn’t matter. She could have been anyone. I was not here for her.
I stayed for the ending. And when it finally came, I stood.
“Are you quiet done?”
Everything broke.
The woman screamed as you shoved her aside so hard she crashed in a heap by the bed. You covered yourself with a sheet, now you remembered your modesty.
“Trish… what the fuck?! What are you doing here?”
For a second, you looked exactly like the man who used to ask me if we could afford groceries that week.
“Watching our divorce proceedings.”
I stood, brushing invisible dust from my jeans.
“H--how did you get in here?”
I walked past you and helped her up. Handed her the shirt. The poor thing was shaking.
I used to shake like that.
“Does it matter, John?” I said. “I am here.”
I looked at you then.
“I stopped by to let you know the moving crew is at the house. Everything you own is being packed as we speak. I paid for a month of storage. After that, you can figure out where you land.”
I let the words sit.
“Or you can stay here. You always seemed comfortable in places like this.”
“Trish… don’t do this… please,” your voice broke. “We can fix this. I’ll do anything. Counseling, anything you want—”
“You already knew what I wanted.”
Silence.
“You knew what I needed when I sat across from you and asked you to look at me like I mattered. You knew when I told you I felt alone in a house I paid for.”
I stepped closer.
“You knew.”
Your mouth opened but nothing came out.
“I built your life,” I said quietly. “I made sure you never had to fall. I made sure our children had a father they could be proud of.”
My voice did not shake.
“And this is what you chose to be instead.”
That landed and you felt that one. I felt that one.
You reached for me but I stepped back.
“I am sorry, what do you want me to do…”, your pathetic eyes were huge and shameful.
“You should have thought about it,” I answered, “before you decided to stick your dick in holes it did not belong in.”
I patted the woman’s shoulder gently as I passed and walked out.
The key card hit your face with a small, sharp sound.
I did not look back.
Outside, your truck was still there. I stood beside it for a moment, looking at it the way I used to look at you.
With belief.
There was nothing left of that now.
Life kept moving.
For once, I let it leave you behind.
written by Layla Kara
