1
Lila
The ocean stretches outbefore me, endless blue meeting the horizon in a view that should take my breath away. Instead, I stare through the sliding glass door with dead eyes, my fingers pressed against the cool surface as if I could push through it and escape. This view, this house… it was supposed to be my dream. Now it’s just another pretty lie hiding the ugliness of my life with Eli.
Pressing my forehead against the glass, letting the coolness seep into my skin. The early morning light dances across the water, creating shimmers that once made me gasp with delight. When Eli first brought me here ten years ago, I thought I’d stepped into a fairy tale. The two-story house with its perfect ocean view, the library he promised I could fill with books, the balcony where we’d drink coffee and watch sunrises together.
What a fucking joke.
I pull back, seeing my faint reflection in the glass. Even that’s too much. I turn away, unable to look at myself. Thisghost of a woman I’ve become. Twenty-nine years old and I feel ancient, hollowed out from the inside by Eli’s constant criticism, his unpredictable rages, the nights I’ve spent wondering if I’d wake up at all.
My gaze drifts to the security camera in the corner, on the ceiling. One of many he installed ‘for our protection.’ I know better. They’re not to keep others out, they’re to keep me in. To monitor my movements when he’s away on his ‘work trips.’To make sure I’m behaving. To catch me if I try to leave.
I’ve tried before. After one of his assaults, I packed a bag while I thought he was streaming. I made it to the car before he caught me, dragged me back inside by my hair. The bruises lasted weeks. The fear never left.
“No one else would want you, anyway. You’re lucky I keep you around.”
His words echo in my head, a constant soundtrack I can’t turn off. The worst part is I’ve started to believe him. Who would want this version of me? This broken shell who flinches at loud noises and has forgotten how to smile without calculating the consequences?
I glance at the clock. 8:05am. I need to get ready for work. I’m not sure how I convinced him to let me get a job. Maybe it was because I threatened to kill myself if I couldn’t have time away from the house? He agreed, but he made sure I didn’t make enough to live on my own. At least at the print shop, I can breathe for a few hours. Valerie and Mia don’t know everything, I’ve gotten good at hiding the worst of it. But they give me something Eli can’t touch. Friendship. Purpose. A reason to keep going.
Moving silently through the house, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the stairs. Eli might be up already, streamingor editing videos, and I don’t want to disturb him. The bathroom door closes behind me with a soft click, and I exhale, my shoulders dropping an inch from their perpetual hunch.
The first thing I do is throw a towel over the mirror. I can’t bear to see myself anymore. My reflection has become an accusation, a reminder of how far I’ve fallen. The glimpses I catch are bad enough: the steel-blue eyes that used to spark with life now dull with resignation, the distinctive red hair with blonde streaks on either side that Eli once called “exotic” and now calls “attention-seeking.”
Stepping into the shower, letting hot water cascade over me. It’s the closest thing to comfort I get most days. As I wash my hair, I can feel its heaviness, the weight of it against my back. I used to love my hair. Now it feels like one more thing Eli uses to control me when he thinks I’m out of line, or won’t give him what he wants. He won’t let me cut it, says it’s the only attractive thing about me anymore, but then complained about the cost of my hair care.
The soap runs down my body, over curves that Eli has deemed “disgusting.” I’ve gained weight since we married, not much, but enough for him to notice, to comment, to use as ammunition. My hourglass figure, the one that once drew appreciative glances, is now something I try to hide under loose-fitting clothes.
I step out of the shower and dry off quickly, keeping my eyes averted from the mirror even through the towel. Dressing in the dark blue jeans and a black babydoll shirt I laid out last night, nothing that would draw attention, nothing that would show my figure too clearly but nice enough for work. Applying minimal makeup in the small compact mirror I keep in my drawer, concealer andmascara. Just enough to hide the perpetual tiredness around my eyes.
My hands shake slightly as I finish getting ready. I need to check if Eli wants anything before I leave. The thought makes my stomach clench, but it’s easier to ask now than face his anger later for not asking at all.
I pad down the hallway to his office door. The sign he hung there reads “GENIUS AT WORK” in bold red letters. I’ve fantasized about replacing it with “ASSHOLE AT PLAY” but never worked up the courage.
My knuckles hover over the wood. I should knock. I know I should knock. The last time I didn’t, he screamed at me for an hour about respect and privacy. But part of me, the small rebellious part that hasn’t completely died, wants to catch him off guard. Wants to see what he’s really doing in there when he claims to be “working.”
I push the door open without knocking.
The room is dim, lit only by the glow of multiple monitors along the back wall. The air is thick and stale, smelling of sweat and something else I don’t want to name. Eli’s hunched over in his expensive gaming chair, headset around his neck. The moment the door opens, his hands fly across the keyboard, closing windows.
I wonder what was on there he didn't want me to see. He normally leaves the windows open and insults me for not being as good as the women on screen. Except they look like they’re in pain. I’m not supposed to care about it, so I choose not to mention it. Mentioning it could also start something I don’t want to finish.
“Fucking knock!” His voice is a whip crack in the quiet room. He spins his chair to face me, face flushed with anger.
“Sorry,” I sayautomatically, the word worn smooth from overuse. “I just wanted to check if you need anything before I leave for work.”
His eyes narrow, assessing me like I’m some kind of defective product. “Where are you going after?”
I hesitate. I had planned to stop at the bookstore. A new romance book releases today, but telling Eli feels like handing him a knife.
“The bookstore,” I admit, hating how it sounds like a confession.
He snorts, turning back to his screens. “Another trashy book? Don’t you have enough of that garbage?”
I bite my tongue. My books are my only joy, the only escape I have. In their pages, women like me find love, adventure, sometimes even revenge. They’re not garbage—they’re survival.
“I won’t be long,” I say instead of what I’m thinking. “What do you want for dinner tonight?”
