I don't know how long I stayed locked inside the bathroom, the muffled sounds of office chatter fading into the background. Time felt irrelevant. I sat on the cold tiles, letting the weight of my emotions anchor me. My tears had dried up, but the heaviness in my chest remained. A hollow ache.
When I finally emerged, the office was nearly empty. Only a few overtime employees lingered at their desks, their tired faces lit by the faint glow of computer screens. I avoided their gazes and quietly gathered my things. My movements felt mechanical, like I was on autopilot. No thoughts ran through my mind—just an eerie, unsettling calm.
Outside, the night air hit my face, crisp and indifferent. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. My legs carried me to the nearest store, and before I realized it, I was standing in front of shelves stacked with bottles of alcohol. My hand hovered for a moment before grabbing a few. Maybe I'd find answers at the bottom of a bottle tonight. Or maybe it was just to feel something.
But as I walked home, clutching the bottles, something shifted inside me. A clarity emerged from the haze, sharp and cruel. I now knew what I wanted. No, what I needed.
I would take everything from the person who stole the happiness of my family. Every ounce of joy, every shred of peace—they would lose it all, just as I had.