Drenched in his blood, I woke up sore—sore from the love he had showered on me for years. Years spent knowing there was no escape. Escape was a dream I had tucked away under the neatly piled clothes. Clothed in the colors he brought me almost every week, week after week, the days grew longer and the colors became brighter. Bright sun’s rays shone in my eyes as I reached out, looking for something familiar. Familiarity was all I had—in the prison of love, knowing when the next blow was coming was all that got me through each day. Days ended in prayers and cries, while nights ended with dried tears and pleas. Pleading to whoever might be ready to listen. Listen for my scream next time. Time hasn’t stopped—not even when the dried blood became part of the cushion cover. I cover my eyes once more, realizing there is nothing familiar about where I am. Am I dreaming, or am I dead? Dead to him, but alive—finally—for a change.
Black Coffee and Grey Stories 
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