Page 3 of Nyx

"Y-You s-said th-there's nowhere I can go th-that y-you c-can't f-find m-me," I answer, each word a struggle for me.

Tears stream down my face, and at this point, I don't know if it's my body's reaction to what's coming or a reflex, something rooted in knowing that the faster the tears come, the quicker things will end.

He loves to see me cry. It's always been one of his goals. Standing up to him, arguing with him, I learned early on, only makes things worse.

"You know I will," he says, the edge of calmness in his voice tinged with a hint of anger. "Yet there are two suitcases near the door."

He points, but I don't pull my eyes off him.

He turns his back to me, full of faith that I won't budge from where I'm standing, and heads toward the bar. The clink of a glass bottle against the whiskey glass lights something inside me.

I wouldn't call it bravery. That emotion has never been one I've had large amounts of.

Maybe it's a survival instinct or something similar, but now is not the time to have an existential crisis.

All I can think about is survival.

I spin, nearly toppling over from the action, and head for the front door.

Just as I pull it open, the warmth of the sun grazing my skin, I'm pulled back, my hair in the tight grip of his hand.

The door slams closed before I can release a yelp of pain.

This doesn't make sense.

His abuse and manipulation have never included physical violence.

He's thrown things near me, never at me. He'd punch the wall by my face but never strike my body.

He uses his words and threats of his power as weapons against me.

The woman at the shelter told me it was only a matter of time. His abuse and methods of punishment would eventually shift.

The abused woman in me automatically blames herself. My attempt to leave triggered this. I brought it on myself.

"People don't leave me," he says, his warm breath right in my face, the grip of his fingers in my hair until I can't help but wince in pain.

"I won't," I vow. "I won't leave."

I know those words to be true. Every cell in my body knows that this confrontation is all it's going to take to keep me loyal and complacent for the rest of my life.

"I know you won't," he growls, his face a fit of rage.

The pain seems almost like an out-of-body experience. I can tell it's happening to me, but it's so foreign that it's almost as if my body is struggling to understand.

I reach up, trying to cover my shoulder, a futile attempt to stop the pain, but at the same moment, he pulls a knife back, slicing my hand.

I look down, red coating my skin and flowing down my fingertips.

None of this makes sense to me.

The red.

The pain.

The escalation of violence.

I've done research.