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a sharp, disorienting jolt ripped kacee from the depths of a fitful, pain-laced unconsciousness. for a terrifying moment, she didn't know where she was. the cold, hard tile beneath her, the cramped darkness, the faint, lingering scent of bleach and stale fear. then it all came rushing back in a sickening wave: the argument, chris's face contorted with rage, the horrifying sound of his fists against wood, her desperate scramble into this tiny, sterile box. the toilet room. hours must have passed. the silence outside the thin door was absolute, a stark contrast to the violent cacophony that had echoed in her ears as she'd drifted off.
every muscle in her body screamed in protest as she tried to move. her neck was stiff, her limbs leaden. she winced, a low groan escaping her lips, as she gingerly tested her injured ankle. it was swollen, a fiery ball of agony that shot daggers of pain up her leg with the slightest pressure. she was still curled in a tight ball on the floor, her clothes damp with sweat and tears.
slowly, painstakingly, she pushed herself up, using the flimsy door for support. her head swam. she took a few shallow, shaky breaths, trying to steel herself for what she might find on the other side. the silence was almost more unnerving than the rage.
her trembling hand reached for the small lock, twisting it. the click sounded deafening. she pushed the toilet room door open a crack, peering out. the main bathroom was dark, only slivers of moonlight filtering through the large, uncurtained windows, painting eerie stripes across the marble floor. the air was cold.
she eased the door open wider and limped out, her weight mostly on her good leg. her eyes adjusted to the dimness. and then she saw it. the main bathroom door. or what was left of it. it hung crookedly on one hinge, splintered and shattered. gaping, jagged holes, punched and kicked through the solid oak, revealed the darkness of the master bedroom beyond. it looked like a wild animal had tried to claw its way in. kacee's breath caught in her throat, a horrified gasp. the sheer, unrestrained violence of it was terrifying.
she pushed the ruined door further open, the damaged wood scraping against the marble. her gaze swept the bathroom, searching for... she didn't know what. more destruction︖ him︖ then her eyes fell on the floor near the double vanity. it was wet. a puddle, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. water︖ she frowned, confused, then looked up.
one of the sinks – his sink, the one on the right – had water running from the tap, a steady, silent stream overflowing the basin and spilling onto the floor. but it wasn't just water. her heart lurched. smeared along the pristine white porcelain edges of the sink were streaks of crimson. dark, ugly smudges of blood. a hand towel, once plush and white, lay discarded on the floor beside the sink, stained a sickening, rusty brown, clearly soaked in it.
ˊoh my god,ˋ she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. panic, cold and sharp, seized her. he'd hurt himself. his hand. punching the door... he must have shattered his knuckles. a wave of guilt, irrational but overwhelming, washed over her, momentarily eclipsing her fear. this was her fault. she'd locked him out. she'd pushed him.
