Chapter 2 - The Dying Light
The phone screen flickered once,
twice,
and then turned black.
The silence that followed was heavy,
pressing down on my shoulders like a physical weight.
I was now truly disconnected,
untethered from the world outside this four-by-four room.
Without the blue light of the screen,
the shadows in the corners seemed to grow longer,
stretching toward me like fingers.
I stood up shakily,
my legs feeling like jelly,
and leaned against the sink for support.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror,
and I barely recognized the woman staring back.
My eyes were bloodshot,
rimmed with red from the tears I had tried to suppress.
My skin was a pale,
ghostly shade of grey,
slick with a cold sweat that wouldn't dry.
I looked at the sink,
wondering if I could wash away the feeling of being trapped.
I turned the tap,
the water splashing loudly against the basin,
sounding like a waterfall in the quiet house.
I splashed my face,
the coldness shocking my system,
forcing me to breathe.
"Think,
Hannah," I whispered to the empty air,
the sound of my own voice startling me.
I looked around the small space,
searching for a weapon or a tool,
anything to change my fate.
I opened the cabinet under the sink again,
rummaging through old bottles of hairspray and rusted razors.
Behind a stack of guest towels,
I found a discarded bathrobe,
thick and white,
smelling of mothballs.
It wasn't a pair of trousers,
but it was coverage.
It was a shield.
I held it against my chest,
the fabric rough and stiff,
feeling a small spark of defiance.
I could put this on,
I could walk out,
and I could leave this house forever.
But then I heard my mother’s voice again,
rising in a sharp peal of laughter from the dining room.
She was happy.
She was comfortable.
She didn't care that her daughter was suffering just a few feet above her head.
The anger began to bubble up,
mixing with the nausea in my stomach.
It was a slow,
burning heat that gave me a different kind of strength.
I realized then that they weren't coming for me.
My father wouldn't put down his glass.
My mother wouldn't leave her dessert.
They had decided that my dignity was a price they were willing to pay for a pleasant evening.
I gripped the bathrobe tighter,
the terrycloth digging into my palms.
I looked at the bathroom door,
the wood scarred with a few scratches near the lock.
I was the one who had to save myself.
There was no knight in shining armor,
no sympathetic sister,
no motherly rescue.
There was only me,
a bathrobe,
and a long walk through a crowded room.
I took a deep breath,
the air tasting of dust and stale perfume,
and prepared for the descent.
Every muscle in my body was tense,
braced for the inevitable confrontation.
I reached for the lock,
my fingers trembling as they touched the cold metal.
I could hear the clink of a spoon against a glass,
the signal for a toast.
May you like
Someone was about to give a speech.
This was my moment.
