Page 2 of Misery Manor

A hiss escapes through my teeth as I press a cotton ball dampened with peroxide onto the cut on my temple. With my free hand, I rummage through the kit to find a bandage, but there isn’t one.

“How is that possible?” I wonder aloud. I could have sworn I just restocked them a few weeks ago. Have I really gone through an entire box of bandages in a month?

I fall heavily onto the closed toilet, feeling too weak to stand anymore.

I’m so tired. All I want to do is sleep, but I can’t because Jamal will bitch about every little thing that hasn’t been done yet. I haven’t done the laundry, started on dinner, or packed his lunch for work tomorrow even though I haven’t even had a chance to do any of those things for myself.

The quarter-carat diamond on my ring finger catches the light beautifully. I loved this ring when Jamal first proposed, but now it’s a harsh reminder of everything I’ve had to put up with for the past few years.

Speaking of Jamal, he bangs on the bathroom door three times before entering without even waiting for me to respond. “Get out here, and make something to eat, Aliyah. I’m starving.”

My heart rate is going a million beats per second. He genuinely makes me fear for my life, yet for some reason, I still love him.

At least, I think I do. Maybe it’s just convenient for me to love him because he’s all I’ve ever known—the only man I’ve ever been with. But I’m not blind to the fact there’s no love in this house, and those feelings I have for him slowly turn to contempt more and more each day.

Nodding, I quickly clean up and grab a couple pieces of gauze to hold against my temple before I leave the bathroom to get dinner started.

CHAPTER 2

ALIYAH

After what happened last night, I slept on the couch to put some distance between Jamal and me. Then I spent the rest of the day at home going through my usual routine: I made breakfast, did the laundry, cleaned the house, went to the post office, and took Jamal some lunch from a nearby restaurant since I never got a chance to make it last night. And only when all of those tasks were done did I sit down at my computer and start looking for a job and a place of my own.

I’ve never lived alone. After moving out of my childhood home and getting married, I immediately moved in with Jamal. He didn’t want me to work, never wanted me to worry about the bills or finances, and now I know why.

At twenty-three years old with no work experience or college classes under my belt, I have nothing to offer. And since I’ve never had any bills or loans in my name, I have no credit, which makes qualifying for an apartment harder than I thought.

Basically, what I realized today is that Jamal’s goal was to keep me dumb and dependent on him.

How could I have been so blind?

When dinner is done, I sit on the couch and wait for Jamal to come home. Fraught with nerves, I decide to read a book and try to relax, but my knee bounces nervously.

As soon as Jamal gets home from work, he goes straight to our bedroom and slams the door shut without looking at or speaking to me. Almost an hour later, he comes out and checks himself in the full-length mirror near the coat closet.

Without looking at me, he says, “I’m going out,” and opens the front door.

At the sight of him dressed in a crisp white t-shirt, light blue denim jeans, white sneakers, and a black Snapback, my stomach drops. There’s only one place he could be going dressed like that.

I set my book down and jump up from the couch. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” he snaps, turning to give me a sharp glare.

“Where are you going?” I ask quietly, swallowing the lump in my throat.

He glares at me for a second, hesitant. He definitely doesn’t want me to know where he’s going, because then I’ll ask him who will be there.

And I already know the answer to that; I just want to hear him say it.

“The bar,” he says in a clipped tone, confirming my earlier thought.

The bar—which does have a name, but I can never remember it because everyone just calls it “the bar”—is the only one in our small town, making it a popular party and hookup spot.

I swallow and wring my hands nervously. “With who?”

Jamal sighs and rolls his eyes as he slides on his coat. “Just a group of friends. Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”

A group of people I’ve never met, or our friend group?