Free The Dark Part of Me by Belinda Burns

that he might be in the room. As my eyes adjusted, familiar objects took shape – his student desk under the window, the double bed
shoved up against the wall, his bookcase, which displayed sports trophies on the top shelves, and a battered collection of textbooks and muscle mags on the lower shelves. I flicked on the desk lamp
and, turning back around, stubbed my toe on the sharp corner of an open suitcase. I crouched down to check out the contents: a pair of new Nikes, a sleeping bag, a duty-free bottle of scotch and a
couple of French porno mags. His clothes were all new – an assortment of designer T-shirts and silky shirts, tartan trousers and a pair of y-front undies – even though he always wore
boxers. I plucked an orange hooded jumper from the pile, held an armpit to my face and inhaled deeply for his smell – that salty, scalpy smell that never ponged, just grew more intense the
less he washed. I pulled the orange jumper over my head with the hood up, feeling safe and alive in his dirty clothes. It was a stinking hot night, even hotter in the room, but I couldn’t
help myself. I turned back to his suitcase, in case there was anything else I’d missed. In the side pocket was a packet of photos.
    A thrill of the forbidden ripped through me as I pulled off the rubber band and settled back with the snaps in my lap. Most of them had been taken when Scott first got to London. Fucking Bomber
was there, hanging off him in every photo, at every landmark – Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the Tower of London – wearing his devil grin, posing rapper-style with his fingers splayed
like a tosser. You could have picked them a mile off; two Aussie backpackers fresh off the plane. After six months, Bomber had come home, but Scott had stayed on.
    Seeing those early photos slated me big-time. It should have been me, not Bomber, sightseeing around London, Paris, Berlin, Amsterdam with him. But then, I already had a plan. With my ten
thousand smackeroonies, I’d convinced myself we could do it all over again but better, with style. Staying in nice hotels with king-sized beds and crispy sheets and chocolates on the pillows.
I kept flicking through – Bomber and the Eiffel Tower, Scott and Stonehenge – and that’s when I saw her. My heart dropped to the pit of my ribcage like a dead bird falling from
the sky.
    She looked half-Japanese. Late twenties. Her face a perfect oval framed by a sleek black bob and a short fringe. She was wearing a pair of white lace knickers and nothing else. Her breasts were
small and white with pale nipples. Her limbs were long and gangly, her legs draped over the arms of a wing-backed chair. In the background was a tall bay window with a view of the countryside; a
low slate sky threatening rain. Her skin glowed gossamer in the strange, northern light. She had a confidence, an ease, the way she lounged in that armchair. She was smiling, a knowing sparkle of
superiority in her black, almond-shaped eyes, no more than a teasing curl on her lips.
Yes, look at me. Aren’t I beautiful? Aren’t I sophisticated? I’m older, smarter, better
in bed. I know things. What do you know about the world, Rosie?
    Nothing but BrisVegas.
    I grabbed Scott’s duty-free scotch, broke the seal and took a big, burny slug. I stared at her satiny cheek, her glossy hair, her dainty crotch. Next thing, I was tearing the photo in
half, then quarters, like my hands had taken over. They kept going until there was nothing left of her, just shredded bits of leg and eye and nipple scattered on the carpet.
Don’t laugh
at me, you bitch.
I couldn’t just leave her there so I picked up all the pieces and shoved them down the crack between the bed and the wall, hoping Scott would never find them. Then, I
went back out, half-cut and hunting for my man, wearing his orange jumper.
    Out on the lawn, The Grubs were playing Beatles covers. Scott’s brother, Nick, was singing, his dreads flying about like snakes. Mr