Then I turn and walk away from her door, not because I’m finished—but because I’m not.
Tahlia
There’s no sound.
Not the hum of cameras repositioning on their mounts. Not the subtle shift of air when he’s standing on the other side of the door, doing nothing and saying less. Not even the echo of his cruel laughter as it ghosts through the room like it used to.
Just silence.
Heavy. Suffocating. Alive.
I pace at first, arms folded, fingers digging into my ribs like I could hold myself together if I just pressed hard enough. My breath claws at my throat, uneven and ugly, because it doesn’t make sense—he always comes. After every scream, every curse, every shattered object I threw just to feel something real against my skin, he came. Smiling. Mocking. Touching.
But now he’s gone.
And the quiet isn’t peace. It’s punishment.
I stare at the mirror. The one I cracked. A spiderweb of destruction blooming from the place my necklace struck—delicate and wrong, like something beautiful bleeding beneath glass. My reflection is distorted, twisted into a dozen fragments of someone I barely recognise anymore.
A girl with bruises under her eyes that look more like war paint than weakness. A girl with blood in her smile. A girl who should hate him. Who does hate him.
But who also misses the sound of his boots outside the door.
I scream. Loud, raw, throat-burning. Just to fill the air with something that isn’t his absence. Just to make sure I still exist, that my voice hasn’t been taken like everything else. I throw a book next—then the tray, the mug, the chair. But nothing breaks loud enough to satisfy the scream still chewing its way out of my lungs.
I want to break something permanent.
I want to break him.
And the worst part?
I want him to watch me do it.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on this floor.
The cold has seeped into my spine, a quiet, numbing ache that mirrors the one in my chest. The room is dim, painted in flickers of shadow from the fire he lit hours ago. It’s gone low now, just embers pulsing like a heartbeat that won’t quit. Won’t let me quit.
I drag my fingers across the cracked edge of the mirror I shattered—just to see something break when I couldn’t. The glass is gone now. He took it. Of course he did. Like he’s always watching. Always steps ahead. Like he knew I’d stare into that jagged shard and wonder what it would take to make him sorry.
But he’s not sorry.
He’s patient.
And worse—he’s not coming.
I thought he would. After the necklace. After the screaming. After the silence. I thought he’d burst through that door and demand submission with that wicked smirk and voice like velvet laced in poison.
But there’s nothing. Just the fire. Just me. Just the weight of wanting something I swore I hated.
My body aches with confusion. My mind wants blood. My skin wants him.
I press my hand flat against the floor. It’s cold. So cold it reminds me I’m still here, still real, still trapped. I crawl to the wall where the camera blinks like an eye that never sleeps. I stare into it. Long. Hard. Until my vision blurs.
“You want a show?” I whisper. “Too fucking bad.”
Then I turn away, spine straightening, rage replacing the tears I almost let him see.
He won’t get my pain.
