Sick. She felt sick, fucking sick, when the telephone rang. She wanted to snatch the old 20-pound, rotary dial behemoth of a phone right out of the wall and fling it through the window. She wanted glass to shatter and fly in a million directions and create rainbows of light in mid-air. She wanted the shards to rain down razors and cut the room into little ribbons. I’m too young for this, she thought. I’m fourteen years old and I am too young for this. For this shit, for this utter shit.
“Hello,” she said into the receiver.
“I’m pointing a knife at my stomach,” he said. “Tell me why you broke up with me.”