I approach the dresser. There’s a mysterious pile of fabric sitting on top of it. I let out a breath and move a little closer, almost startled by my own reflection in the mirror, by the way the word BITCH cuts across my face and makes me look like I’m bleeding. I look down at the fabric—the pale pink color, the soft fleece fabric, and the bits of ribbon. It’s the pajamas he bought me. They’ve been torn into a million tiny shreds, as if with a knife. I glance over at the corner of the room, where I’ve been keeping the gift box and packaging. It’s all been ripped open. The note and tissue paper have been tossed onto the floor. Still shaking, I drop the razor and close my eyes, cover my ears. I feel myself breathe in and out, trying to calm myself down, even though every inch of me wants to scream. I take several steps backward, preparing to exit the room, peering out of the corner of my eye at my closet door, which is still closed. Instead of checking inside it, I hurry down the hallway and into the living room.
