“I’ve really fucking had it with your smart mouth lately. I don’t know who the hell you think you’re talking to.”
My face throbs. I touch my jaw, trying to right my vision. I blink waiting for it to stop spinning. “I just have to recook it. It won’t take long.” His fingers weave and squeeze into my hair, wrenching me out of the kitchen and tossing me into the living room. Pain lashes every part of me. My ribs. My neck. My head.
This time, when he hits me, my mind goes elsewhere.
It jumps to tomorrow.
Not even the things he does to me tonight stop the relief I feel.
I just have to make it to tomorrow.
Just to tomorrow.
Tomorrow . . .
To . . .
My body screamsas I wake, but my alarm is louder than the pain echoing in my skull. Opening my eyes, I’m happy to see I’m in bed alone. Normally I wake up before he leaves in the morning to pack his lunch, but he does this sometimes. When he gets really bad. And last night was the worst I’ve had in a while. When it gets this bad, he lets me sleep in, like a sick apology for what he’s done.
I drag myself out of bed. The pain in my bones protests, but not even that can stop me. I hurt... everywhere. Tearscome to my eyes and I wipe them away. It’s been years of this. Years of him hurting me and taking what he wants from me as if I exist purely for his amusement.
I have nothing left to give him. He’s chipped me away to nothing. Well, almost nothing.
I refuse to die here.
I salvage whatever pieces of my dignity I can manage and go shower. I’m sore, and I try really hard to block out what it means. It’s not the first time he’s forced himself on me. Not even the first time while I’ve been passed out.
It was, however, the last time.
When I step in front of our mirror I flinch. Bruises cover my side. I blacked out when he started kicking me on the floor, and I’m almost happy I blacked out for the rest of it.
“You’re free,” I tell myself, even if I’m not free yet. I still have to manage the next few hours. As carefully as I can, I wash up. I feel like all my movements are heavy.
It’s like he’s taken all his training and honed it to hurt me. He never makes things bad enough that I need to go to the hospital, just enough that I’m in pain for weeks at a time. Enough to make me afraid. The first few years I tried my best to make him happy, and it took me longer than it should have to realize he’s never happy.
I don’t look in the mirror while I brush my teeth, I don’t want to see myself, but curiosity wins and I glance up. I have a slight bruise on the edge of my hairline from the spaghetti pot. Everything else is hidden by my clothing. I don’t want to meet Alyssa looking like a mess. I don’t want her being afraid and not hire me.
I need this.
I search for my blocked contacts, finding Alyssa’s number.
Felix:
I’m heading into town now. Take your time. I’ll be waiting inside the cafe.
I take my first real breath of relief as she texts me the address.
In my room, I take a sticky note and write it down. I have to be smart about this. I can’t have the rideshare pick me up here, he’ll see it on the camera. I need to get out of this house undetected, which means climbing out of the upstairs hall window and down the trestle. I’ve done it before. I wanted to test my weight on it before it came to this.
Doing it now, with the amount of pain I’m in, will be its own special treat.
I’ve planned my escape for over a year now, and I thought I’d feel different... free. But I feel more trapped than ever. I guess I’m expecting something to go wrong. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to leave, but it’s been years since the last time.
I request a rideshare to pick me up at the park a few blocks down the road. I’ll have to go through Mrs. Windsor’s yard, but she should be at work now. I know there’s a possibility of being caught on other door cameras, but it’s a risk I need to take.
Hopefully I’ll be long gone before anyone even sees the footage.
In my room, I grab the envelope of money I’ve stashed under the floorboards along with the bullet journal I have. It’s the only thing that’s kept me sane. I write everything in it—my feelings, dreams—and sometimes I think of little short stories to write down. My life is in here. It makes me feel better. It makes me feel like I’m in control. It’s the only place my thoughts can go. It keeps me from choking on them.
