End Flashback

My mother used to tell me: my dear Alice, every reaction responds to a given action.
Let’s talk about the word reaction for a second.
You know Carmen pretty well, at this point, don’t you?
Yes, you do.
But you haven’t seen her in all of her glorious fury, yet.
An hit-and-run action? A reflex action? A plan of action?
Well. I’d say all of them.

Flashback – Carmen

I am fuming.
I don’t know what else to say.
I don’t even know what to think.
All I know is that Shane is gonna pay.
She is definitely gonna pay.
As I rapidly walk towards my monstrous jeep, I take a quick look at Shane’s Morgan.
It’s parked in front of our house.
I get in my jeep and turn on the engine, making the tyres screech as I drive towards the front road.
I switch on the lights on the hood, floodlighting the Morgan.
I stare at it, coldly, and then I push the gas pedal.
The first crash is not that violent, but it’s loud enough for Shane to come out and staring at me mouth agape.
I back up, hitting the Morgan with my bumper.
The Morgan jerks with a snapping noise and its wheels start spinning over the empty street.
Shane’s eyes open wide.
She runs towards the car, frantically looking for the keys into her pocket.
She tries hard to open the driver door but it’s dented.
I smile a wicked grin, flashing her with my headlights in full beam.
“What…? What…? What are you doing?!”, she stutter, panicking.
The engine of my jeep roars.
“Do you see what she’s doing?!”, Shane yells towards my guests, who are standing speechless on the front porch observing the whole scene.
“Do you see that?!”.
Then, she finally opens the door and sits on the driver seat, trying unsuccessfully to turn the engine on.
I must have damaged it on permanent basis.
I grab the microphone from the dashboard and turn on the amplifiers on the hood.
“Get out of the car, hon”, I say, in a flat tone.
She rolls down the window.
“You’re gonna have to kill me!”, she yells, panicking.
“I mean it, Shane”.
My voice sounds metallic through the amplifiers.
“You don’t have the guts!”, Shane growls, still trying to switch on the engine.
The engine of my jeep roars, again.
She gestures towards me.
“Come on! Come on!”.
She doesn’t need to say it twice.
I push the gas pedal and use all my four driving wheels to pass right over the Morgan.
With Shane inside of it.
The windows explode.
The entire car scrunches up.
Inside the passenger compartment, Shane covers her head with both her hands and bend down shouting and swearing.
When my jeep eventually bumps on the pavement again, she gets out rapidly from her shriveled Morgan.
She looks at me, her lips parted and her eyes widened.
“This is absurd. It’s just absurd”, she mutters to herself.
Then, she reaches for the jack in the boot and starts slamming it against my car.
“Okay! Okay!, she yells, “The gloves are off!!”.
I make the tyres screech as I drive away.
“The gloves are fucking off, can you hear me!!?”, she shouts throwing the jack against my rear lights.
“Chickenshit”, I murmur, clenching my jaw and leaving my house around the corner.

**

I come home almost three hours later.
I feel exhausted.
My beautiful dress is dirty and creased as I get off the car and head to the front door.
The whole house is soundless.
There is just a quiet crackling sound and a faint, reddish light coming from the kitchen.
Tiredly, I walk across the room and lean my back against the door frame, observing my hyper-technologic kitchen devoured by the flames.
Shane is still wearing her black tuxedo.
She’s sitting on the kitchen table, her feet dangling.
She stares absent-mindedly at the flames as she distractedly chews a bit of my Saint Honoré cake.
She doesn’t bother to turn her head when she notices that I am there.
“Your guests would have loved this”, she just considers, placing her fork back into the plate.
I shrug.
“I expected a little more imagination from you, Shaney”.
I head towards her studio.
Shane jumps off the table immediately, following me.
“Where are you going?”, she asks, jerked.
“Guess I’ll go clean up”, I say in a pain tone.
I take her beloved antiques from a shelf and crash them on the floor.
“NO!!”, Shane yells, trying to reach for me.
I throw her a plate and she bends immediately.
The plate crashes against the wall behind her shoulders.
I grab another antique.
Shane’s palms lift in front of me.
“No!! Not the Staffordshires!”, she exclaims.
I stare at her, my jaw clenched, my expression unreadable.
“You love them as much as I do”, Shane adds, cautiously.
“More”, I reply, serious.
“Don’t touch them”, she says.
But I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything, at this point.
Our marriage is ruined. Why should this house survive?
“What are you doing?!”, Shane yells as the first Staffordshire crashes on the floor.
I don’t listen to her.
I just can’t.

End Flashback

So far, it was a pretty normal divorce scenario.
A few bruises, some broken dishes, a fire extinguished fish.
But I think you should have a drink for this next part.
Because there are two dilemmas… that rattle the human skull.
How do you hold onto someone who won’t stay?
And how do you get rid of someone who won’t go?