The room spins around me. His voice, slurred and venomous, cuts through the fog in my mind. Why is he yelling again? What did I do this time? The pain in my head is sharp and relentless, each word he spits out a dagger.

“Why do you always make me do this?” he snarls, his breath reeking of alcohol.

My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might burst from my chest. I try to find my footing, but the ground seems to tilt beneath me. I know I have to get out, but my legs feel like lead. I stagger towards the door, but his hand grabs my arm, yanking me back. The impact sends me sprawling, and my vision darkens at the edges.

“Where do you think your going?, HUH!?” He yells out to me. “I own you! You’re nothing but a piece of trash without me.”

Tears running down my face, I have to escape. I have to run. I muster every ounce of strength I have left and bolt for the back door. The cold night air hits me like a slap, but I keep going, the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Branches claw at my skin as I tear through the forest, their skeletal fingers scratching and pulling at me. His footsteps thunder behind me, each step a reminder of how close he is, how desperate this escape is. My lungs burn with every breath, the cold air stabbing at my throat. I can’t stop, I can’t let him catch me.

The darkness is disorienting, shadows dancing in the corners of my vision. I push through, focusing on the faint glimmer of light ahead. If I can just make it to the highway, maybe someone will stop, maybe someone will help.

I break through the tree line and stumble onto the asphalt, the sudden brightness of headlights blinding me. I throw up my arms to shield my eyes, but my legs give out beneath me. The world tilts, and I hit the ground hard, my head striking the pavement with a sickening thud.

The pain is sharp, white-hot, and then everything goes black.

When I come to, everything is bright and sterile. The beeping of machines is steady, almost soothing in its regularity. “Miss what’s your name?” … “Mia- Mia can you hear me?” My head feels heavy, and there’s a dull ache at the back of it. I try to sit up, but my body feels like it’s made of lead.

“Good morning,” a nurse says gently, appearing at my side. “How are you feeling?”

I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is dry and scratchy. She offers me a cup of water, and I sip slowly, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.

“You’ve been through a lot,” she continues, her eyes kind and understanding. “But you’re safe now.”

Safe. The word feels foreign, almost meaningless. How can I be safe when the last thing I remember is running for my life? My mind is a jumble of fractured images and sensations, none of them making sense.

Later, a police officer visits. His eyes are sharp, taking in every detail as I try to piece together what happened. I describe the rage, the fear, the desperate flight through the forest. His presence is reassuring, a steady anchor in the storm of my thoughts.

“I know this is hard,” he says, his voice steady and calm. “But your story is important. We need to make sure he can’t hurt you again.”

I nod, the weight of his words pressing heavily on my chest. I can’t remember everything, but I remember enough. Enough to know that I never want to go back.

The days pass in a blur of recovery and reflection. I slowly regain my strength, my body healing even as my mind struggles to process everything. Each day is a step forward, a move towards reclaiming my life. I find solace in simple routines, in the kindness of the nurses, in the moments of quiet contemplation.

One day, a familiar face appears at my door. Sarah. My childhood friend. She rushes to my side, tears in her eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers, hugging me tightly. “I was so worried about you.”

Her presence is a balm to my soul, a reminder of who I was before all this. We talk for hours, catching up on lost time. She insists that I come stay with her once I’m discharged.

“You need a fresh start,” she says firmly. “We’ll get through this together.”

When the day finally comes to leave the hospital, I feel a mix of anxiety and anticipation. Sarah is there, a comforting anchor. As we drive to her apartment, I take in the scenery, trying to let the sense of freedom sink in.

Sarah’s apartment is a cozy space filled with warmth and light. It feels like a sanctuary, a place where I can finally breathe. Over the next few weeks, I start to rebuild my life, finding comfort in the routines, the support of Sarah, and the quiet moments of reflection.

One evening, Sarah suggests we visit a local art gallery. “It’ll be good for you to get out,” she says, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “And I think you’ll love it.”

I agree, and we spend the evening wandering through the gallery, admiring the vibrant paintings and sculptures. The art speaks to me, resonating with my own journey of pain and healing.

“This is one of my favorite places,” a voice says from behind me.

I turn to see a man standing there, his golden hair slightly tousled, his eyes warm blue and inviting. He smiles at me, a genuine, heartfelt smile that makes me feel instantly at ease.

“I’m Ryan,” he says, extending his hand. “Sarah told me a bit about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

I shake his hand, feeling a spark of connection. “Nice to meet you too, Ryan.”

As we talk, I find myself drawn to his easy charm and gentle demeanor. He shares his love for art, describing how it helped him through difficult times. His words resonate with me, and I feel a kinship with him.

That night, as I lay in bed, I can’t stop thinking about Ryan. His kindness and understanding touch me deeply, and I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I can find happiness again.