⊰ 33 ⊱ The Lies We Tell

I locked myself in my apartment, doing everything I could to keep myself from utterly falling apart.

After calling animal services to pick up Bubbles’ body, the local police were notified, and I was forced to make a police report—one I lied on.

I concealed the visible bruise on my cheek with layers of makeup and told them I came home to find someone had broken into my apartment. I said I left the door unlocked and didn’t notice anything had been tampered with. The words tasted bitter on my tongue, the lies burning my throat.

When they asked me if I had any reason to believe that someone may be targeting me, I said no.

I know better.

After they left, I spent the rest of the night scrubbing the blood from my carpet, the rough fibers chafing my hands as I worked. Oddly, it was easier than I thought it would be. For six hours, I not only cleaned Bubbles’ blood but the rest of my apartment too, disposing of everything that was hi