He snatches his laptop and keys before the garage door slams like a gunshot, tires screech down the driveway, and the house falls silent.
I stay curled on the floor, my whole body shaking, blood dripping from my nose.
My face throbs with every heartbeat, my ribs screaming with each shallow breath, while tears cut through the blood on my cheeks.
How did I let it get this bad?
I’m a broken heap in my living room, wrecked by a man I should have left years ago.
I don’t know how long he’ll be gone—maybe a few minutes, an hour if I’m lucky. I need to get out of here before he comes back.
Every movement hurts as I struggle to stand, one hand pressed against the wall for support, while I stagger down the hall.
In the bathroom, I grip the counter and force myself to look.
The face in the mirror isn’t mine.
Blood is pouring from my nose, with red streaks across my mouth and chin. My right eye is already swelling shut, as red veins burst, erasing the white. My shirt is soaked, and my chest heaves as if I just ran a marathon.
Splashing water on my face, I gag at the taste of iron as blood hits my tongue.
Tissues jammed into my nose do little to stop the flow, and my ribs scream as I peel off my ruined shirt.
The skin along my side is red and mottled, and the outline of his boot print is already darkening and blooming.
But I can’t linger.
As I bend over to get a duffel bag from the closet, I hiss in pain. My chest burns with every shallow breath as I frantically gather clothes and toiletries, dressing in a fresh shirt and pants.
In my office, I fumble for the tote to carry my laptop and work files. My hands are shaking so badly that I nearly drop it.
Each time I take a trip to the car, I expect to hear his engine roaring up the driveway. My pulse pounds so loudly in my ears that it drowns out everything else.
He took my phone because, of course, he did. The first thing I’ll need is a new one.
I slide into the driver’s seat of my car, hit the button on the garage remote, and back out before the door is even all the way up.
At a nearby strip mall, I slide the cash I have across the counter to buy a cheap prepaid phone. My voice trembles as I tell the clerk I don’t need a bag. He doesn’t even look at me or notice the fresh bruises on my face.
It’s nearly seven; the sky burns with streaks of orange as the sun sinks below the horizon. It’s usually something I’d stop to admire, but I can’t stop now. And I can’t be somewhere he’d expect to find me.
My mom’s house is out; it’s too obvious.
I need a hotel, paid in cash. Using a credit card is out of the question; he could check with the bank and see the charges.
Stopping at an ATM, I yank out the bills, my hands still shaking.
I keep looking over my shoulder, convinced he’s going to appear behind me. Every set of headlights makes me think it’s him looking for me.
I don’t know where I’m headed, but I know I can’t go back.
In a fog, I barely remember how I got here, only that I’m standing in the harsh fluorescent glow of a hotel lobby, with the smell of stale coffee surrounding me.
My wallet feels unfamiliar in my hands as I fumble to count out the cash. The front desk clerk takes it quietly, her eyes flicking to the swelling on my face, then away again. Her single glance feels like pity, sympathy, and maybe even judgment.
She passes me a key card, and I mumble a thank you.
The elevator ride feels like a blur. My reflection in the chrome doors looks worse than I thought: blotchy skin, tear streaks down my cheeks, and the beginning of bruises forming.
