Object of Antipathy

Light filters through the gap between the half-drawn curtains, beams stretching out to caress the beads held tight in Sian's hand. Once again, she had woken up before her 8 AM alarm and, once again, she had reached out to feel those worry beads.

The curves of deep orange and yellow fall under her fingers almost absentmindedly. Sian, half-present and half-daydreaming, gazes into their internal flames as they catch the light. It can't be denied. They are stunning.

And Sian fucking hates them.

The only thing Alexandros left behind are those komboloi worry beads. In fact, no...that isn't the only piece of worthless crap he's left her with. Every night since he had gone, Sian wakes up from reliving everything that bastard had put her through. Every night now, her eyes shoot open and her hands are clammy and beads of sweat run down her face. He has left her with nightmares. Oh, and worry. Lots of fucking worry.

Almost without her control, Sian finds her fingers tightening around the beads and moving along them with frantic speed. She also finds she's been holding her breath. Chest tight with trapped air, she exhales, and the beads are passed through her hands at a calmer pace like before. Sian's gaze still rests on the motions of her hands, at a loss as to whether these worry beads have any effect on her worry at all. In Greek culture, the komboloi beads are used for various different purposes. For relaxation and passing the time. As an amulet for warding away bad luck. And to apparently limit the owner's tendency of smoking. Sian can't vouch for the beads doing any of those things. They're merely stupid orbs of amber—not exactly her idea of having a good time. She isn't even going to dwell on the concept of luck. For smoking, they did nothing at all. The supporting evidence lies in the two empty packets of Marlboros sitting atop her bedroom bin, previously emptied just yesterday afternoon. Last night's ashtray is her perfume of the morning. But Sian cares for none of those things. She hopes mostly that the worry beads limit her desire to push a carving knife into his eye socket, if they ever have the (very bad) luck of crossing paths again.

Alexandros. Sour, beloved Alex. He was the sole Greek object of her affection, in all his charm and glory and cocky ways. What began as a transient holiday romance in a sticky, tiny way on the hills of Mykonos transformed into something much more constant. Cheap rooms in Greek hotels soon became Sian's flat when Alex moved to England, and her summer job was over. In six months, they had already begun planning their new home—which Alex had pledged to build from scratch.

He was a handyman—a DIY king and coincidentally very good with his hands. A quality she last stumbled on when, very coincidentally, finding his hands on another woman in the master bedroom of 'their' new house. Alex knew that if you wanted to fuck something up, you had to do it yourself.

Even seeing him intertwined with a sweaty, naked body other than hers, Sian found a way to excuse and defend him until the end of time. Well, until he attacked her with insults before slamming her front door behind him, exclaiming that the house was never for her but for that rich client she had found him buried deep in. Funny how Alexandros means 'defender of mankind.' More like 'emotional abuser of women,' 'bringer of temporary happiness and permanent depression,' and 'leaver of shitty Greek objects of antipathy.'

Those stupid beads. She despises them for all they make her remember and worry about. Which is exactly why they'll never be found lying on the rubbish, entangled with cigarette stubs and empty Marlboro packets.