She hides in the night, behind a door of fear and loneliness.
The blood pools beneath fresh bruises, inflictions of love that scream back to her from the mirror, illuminated by harsh florescent lights.
Intellectually, she knows she should get out; she knows she should run. But she can’t. She won’t. Love doesn’t work that way; it is not intellectual.
When the door downstairs slams, she tenses, back to the bathroom door. Tears fall out from beneath her eyelids as her heart races, knowing what’s coming next. A crash echoes through the house and she wonders what piece of furniture became his next victim.
His voice calls out her name, coming closer and closer, footsteps marking his distance like blips on a sonar.
Her fear is crushing her chest; she can scarcely breathe. Hearing him stop at the door, she scrambles for the lock, but she is too slow.
The door opens.