episode 4

The water runs lukewarm now, swirling down the drain in cloudy streaks — suds, tiny flecks of her hair, the last traces of blood. She sits there on the cold edge of the tub, knees pulled up, shoulders slumped forward, her chin tucked into the hollow between her collarbones.

Her scalp prickles in the air, raw and bare. She can feel the thin rivulets of water running down the nape of her neck. Every drop makes her flinch.

He turns off the faucet with a squeak. For a second, the only sound is their breathing — hers shallow and shaky, his heavier, more uncertain than before.

"Up," he mutters. He tries to make it sound like a command, but it comes out softer. Guilt seeps through the cracks in his voice.

When she doesn’t move fast enough, he grabs her elbow — not rough this time, just firm enough to make her stand. She wobbles on the slippery tiles, one arm wrapped around her chest.

"Come on, come on. Let’s get you… get you dressed."

He pulls a towel from the rack — an old one, threadbare at the edges. He wraps it around her shoulders, pats her down awkwardly. Every time his fingers brush the tender scrapes on her scalp, she winces. He doesn’t apologize — just works faster.

"Stop shaking," he snaps when her teeth start to chatter. But his own hands are trembling too. She sees it. The shame. The tiny crack in the armor he always wears.

He tosses the towel aside, half-damp. He drags her out of the bathroom by the wrist, like a child who might wander away. Back into the cold bedroom — the floor still littered with shredded locks of her hair.

He fumbles through the wardrobe, yanks out a plain old T-shirt — one of his — and a pair of her soft pajama pants. He tosses the clothes onto the bed, then stops. He looks at her — really looks — standing there naked, bald, her arms wrapped tight around her ribs like she could hold herself together by force.

For a heartbeat, his eyes flinch away. It’s the first time she’s ever seen him not want to look.

"Come on," he mutters again. He tries to help her step into the pants — his fingers brushing her cold calves, clumsy, uncertain. She doesn’t fight. She doesn’t even flinch now. She lifts each foot, obedient, like a doll.

He pulls the T-shirt over her head, guiding her arms through the holes. The cotton sticks to her damp skin. He tugs it down over her hips, careful not to pull at the raw skin on her neck.

When he’s done, he steps back. He stares at her — at the bruise blooming on her jaw, the raw stubble on her scalp, the dullness in her eyes that used to hold so much fire. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick from her face to the floor and back again.

"I… I didn’t mean for it to go that far," he says, voice hoarse. He wipes a palm over his mouth, then over his hair. He looks smaller now, like the monster costume has slipped off for a moment.

"You… you make me so angry, you know? I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do this if you didn’t push me. Why do you always push me?"

She doesn’t answer. She stares at his bare feet, her own toes cold against the floorboards. Her shoulders rise and fall with tiny, shallow breaths. No tears now. No words left.

He steps closer, fingers hovering near her cheek but never quite touching. He shakes his head — maybe at her, maybe at himself.

"You’re mine," he says again, but it sounds weaker this time. Like he’s trying to convince himself. “Don’t ever forget that. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be better. I promise.”

She lifts her eyes just enough to meet his — and for a second, he sees it: that tiny ember that didn’t drown in the bathwater or the tears or the buzzing razor. The flicker that says I see you. I hate you. And one day I’ll be free.

But she says nothing. She lets him wrap his arms around her shoulders. Lets him rock her side to side like a child. Lets him kiss the top of her raw scalp, whispering apologies that mean nothing at all.

She stands there, stiff and silent — dressed now, but stripped of everything else — and buries that spark deep where he can’t reach it.

Not forever, she thinks, pressing her palms into the soft cotton of his shirt. Not forever.

A month passes.

The bruises on her scalp fade, though little patches never grow back the same. She learns to live with the cold of her bare neck, the stubble scratching her pillow at night. She learns to say “yes” quickly — before his voice sharpens, before the cold hate slides into his eyes.

In tiny ways, life seems calmer — or so she tells herself. He brings her tea in the mornings sometimes, though it’s cold and bitter by the time he forces it into her trembling hands. He says “sorry” more often — but only when she’s quiet, when she folds herself small enough to fit in the cage he’s built around her.

And she believes it — because she has to. She repeats it to herself in the shower, in the quiet hours when he sleeps beside her like a stone.

He’s good if I’m good. He’s good if I’m good. He’s good if I don’t make him angry.

She cooks the things he likes. She doesn’t answer back. She never flinches when he reaches for her hair — what little is left of it. She laughs when he wants her to laugh, even when it makes her stomach twist.

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⚫ One Fine Day

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The pain starts as a dull ache in her belly at dawn — a twisting, hot cramp that makes her hunch over the sink, breath coming in shallow gasps. When she wipes, the rusty smear on the tissue makes her heart sink.

She knows what this means: she’s vulnerable. She’s messy. And he hates mess.

She moves quietly through the day, a soft ghost in her own home. She folds his shirts. She picks up the empty beer cans he leaves scattered by the couch. She tries to hide the wince each time a cramp bites through her lower belly.

When evening comes, he pulls her down onto the bed beside him. His arm drapes across her hip, his breath warm against her neck.

"You’ve been good lately," he murmurs, fingers brushing under her shirt. She stiffens but forces herself to breathe evenly.

"I… I don’t feel well," she says, voice a shaky whisper. “It’s my… it’s my time. I’m cramping bad. Can we just—”

He laughs against her skin — a low, humorless sound. His hand slips lower, ignoring her flinch.

"Come on. Don’t start this. You know I hate when you push me away."

"Please. I’m in pain. I just want to sleep tonight—" The word please tastes like ashes.

His fingers tighten on her hip, nails digging in. She tries to turn onto her side, but he shoves her flat against the mattress.

"Stop fighting me. It’s nothing. A little blood won’t kill you. You’re mine — even like this."

The tears well up before she can swallow them back. “Please—”

He slaps her thigh, hard enough to make her yelp. “Quiet.” The word is final. A verdict. No more pretending.

She clamps her lips together as he tugs at her pajama pants, shoving the fabric aside like an inconvenience. The pain in her belly twists hotter, sharper. When he forces himself inside her, the fresh cramps tear through her core like knives.

She bites her own wrist to keep from crying out. The copper tang of blood and salt fills her mouth. Tears spill sideways into her hair. He doesn’t look at her face — just keeps his eyes half-lidded, breath heavy, fingers digging bruises into her hips to keep her still.

Somewhere, in the red haze behind her eyes, her mind drifts: I was good. I did everything right. I stayed quiet. Why isn’t it enough?

His breath hitches. He finishes with a grunt, pressing her hips so hard the bones feel like they’ll crack. The sick, sticky heat between her legs feels like an open wound. She hates the wetness — not just the blood, but him. Inside her. Always inside her.

When he rolls off her, he wipes his hand on her thigh, smearing red. He doesn’t say sorry. He doesn’t say anything. He just rolls over, falling asleep in seconds — as if nothing happened at all.

She lies there, staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows on the wall. The ache in her belly dulls, then throbs again. The bruises on her hips bloom under her skin.

Her eyes close. No tears left — only that silent voice, so small but so sharp it cuts her open from the inside:

You can never be small enough. Never good enough. He will take everything — even this.

But somewhere beneath the pain, the betrayal, the sticky heat between her thighs — the ember glows again, stubborn and wild:

One day. Not forever. Not his forever.

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