She can’t feel her skin. The ends of her body are indistinguishable from his, as her eyes trace their locked limbs. She’s sticky and matted with violence. The mirror is no longer on the wall, while the books are torn and scattered among the shards of glass on the floor.
The window is open, and the cold night air of late November floods through. It stings, and she can feel the ache of it all as it caresses her injuries.
If this was a story, maybe she could feel shock, anger, or disbelief. A stranger in the dark, pulling you off the streets into the bushes. An urban legend, a myth.
She’s not the girl found murdered in her hotel from a one-night stand. She’s not the pretty little thing with a stressed boyfriend who sometimes loses his temper and beats his girl.
She’s the slacker who’s been with a drug addict for the past three years. She’s the tramp who lets her guy cheat and sleep with other women. She’s the whore who still sleeps with him, even as he beats her to a bloody pulp while kissing her lips.
She’s the fool who’s in love with the devil.
She knows that nobody will hear the screaming. She knows her pleas will go unanswered. What is the world going to say? She already knows the answer. She’s heard it a million times before.
She asked for it. She likes it. She loves him, and for that reason, she doesn’t deserve help.
She’s swimming around their fish tank of an apartment looking for an escape. Tonight though, she’s lucky.
He left the window open.
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