The signs were there from the beginning, I see that now. The way he’d check my phone when I was in the shower. The subtle comments about my friends, my clothes, my weight. The way he’d raise his voice during arguments, just enough to make me back down. Small things that grew so gradually I didn’t notice I was being consumed until there was almost nothing left of me.
I think back to our early days, when he still wooed me with grand gestures and promises. He seemed so perfect. Successful, handsome, attentive. By the time I realized the attention was control, the handsome face hid an ugly soul, I was already trapped.
Or did I trap myself? Did I ignore the warning signs because I wanted so badly to believe someone could love me that much? Did I make excuses for his behavior because admitting the truth meant admitting I’d made a terrible mistake?
“How the hell could I have avoided this?” I whisper to the empty room, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.
The answers don’t come. Maybe there aren’t any, or maybe they’re too simple to accept. Maybe I could have left the first time he screamed at me over a dinner I’d burned. Or the first time he “accidentally” broke something I loved. Or the first time he pushed me, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to show he could.
My sprained wrist throbs, the bandage too tight and too loose all at once. I adjust it with my good hand, wincing at the pain that shoots up my arm. At least the physical wounds will heal. The doctor said six to eight weeks for the ribs, less for the wrist and bruises. The other wounds… the ones you can’t see on an X-ray. I’m not sure about those.
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I blink them back. I’m done crying over Eli Fischer. He’s taken enough from me.
My phone screen lights up with a notification. It’s not a text, just a reminder from my calendar app about a print job due next week. Something so normal, so mundane, it almost makes me laugh. The world keeps turning, even when yours stops.
I open the browser on my phone and type “Maryland divorce papers” into the search bar. The state website comes up first, and I click it, watching as the page loads. There they are, PDF forms with titles like “Complaint for Absolute Divorce” and “Financial Statement.”
My thumb hovers over the download button. Once I start this, there’s no going back. But then, there was no going back the moment Eli threw me down those stairs. Maybe there was no going back years ago, and I just couldn’t see it.
I download the forms, a small act of defiance that feels monumental. Tomorrow, I’ll ask Valerie to print them at the shop. She can mail them as soon as I’m discharged. I don’t need a fancy lawyer, at least not yet. This is just the first step, filing the paperwork myself to make it official that our marriage is over.
My stomach churns at the thought of Eli’s reaction when he’s served with divorce papers. But then I remember the police officer stationed outside my hospital room door, the restraining order they helped me file this afternoon, the charges stacking up against Eli. Assault. Attempted sexual assault. False imprisonment. The detective mentioned they’re looking into other potential charges as well, though he couldn’t elaborate.
For once, Eli can’t hurt me. He’s in a cell, and I’m free. Broken and bruised, but free.
The pain medication in my IV is starting to work again, dulling the sharp edges of my injuries. My eyelids grow heavy, but I fight the drowsiness. I’m not ready to sleep, not ready to risk the nightmares I know are waiting.
Instead, I open my e-reader app, scrolling through my library for something to distract me. My finger pauses overa dark romance I’d been reading before... before everything. The irony isn’t lost on me, escaping into fictional tales of obsession and dangerous men while living my own twisted version. But these stories always had one crucial difference: the men in them, no matter how dark, never truly hurt the women they loved.
I open a different book instead, a mystery I’ve been meaning to read for months. Something with no romance, no obsession, just a puzzle to solve. The words swim before my eyes as the medication pulls me deeper toward sleep.
As I drift off, my thoughts turn once more to my masked man. To the promise in his text:
‘I’ll show you who I am. No more masks, no more secrets.’
Part of me is afraid of that revelation, afraid that the reality won’t match the fantasy I’ve built in my head. But another part, growing stronger by the minute, is ready to see him again, without the mask.
The phone slips from my fingers, landing softly on the blanket covering my legs. Tomorrow will bring Valerie with croissants, Mia with her fierce protectiveness, and the first steps toward my new life. For now, I let the medication pull me under into darkness.
My last conscious thought before sleep claims me is simple: I survived. And that’s enough for today.
27
Lila
Trigger Warning: Non Consent, Recording Without Consent
Istand in thekitchen, staring at the coffeepot as it finishes its cycle. The house is the same as it will always be. Silent, sterile, cold. My hands are steady as I pour Eli’s coffee. Two sugars, a splash of cream, just how he likes it. I wipe the rim of the mug before picking it up, careful not to leave any spillage.
I carry the cup upstairs, every step rehearsed. Every footstep echoes, even the soft ones. Eli’s office door is closed. Always closed. I hold the coffee in one hand and knock with the other.
No answer. I wait. I listen. Nothing.
I count to five, then turn the knob. The office is dark except for the glow of Eli’s computer monitors. There are several of them, angled so he can see everything at once. The screensaver is off. He’s there, slouched in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.
He doesn’t turn when I step inside, but I know he knows I’m there. The desk is dark wood, wiped clean. I see my ownreflection in the screen: red hair pulled back, pale face, eyes already wide.
He’s watching something on one of the monitors. I see flashes of skin and movement, hear the faint, rhythmic moaning. He turns the volume up a notch, and the sound gets clearer. She’s not moaning, she’s crying.
