(I'm giving you guys a trigger warning ahead of time. This story won't be so pretty. The boyfriend is a fucking monster, and he does the kind of shit that would smack someone with the death penalty, without hesitation.
Cover isn't mine.)
You froze, staring at the kitchen. It was spotless, or in the very least you had thought so. It stank like cleaning chemicals throughout the house, so much so that your nose stung.
The dishes are done. I cleaned out the fridge of all the crap we haven't eaten in awhile. The floors are done.
How the fuck could I have forgotten the trash? It's right in front of me!
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you felt your eyes beginning to water. No, no, this wouldn't do. You hastily wiped them, and not a moment too soon: his car was pulling into the driveway.
Fuck.
It was too late. If you decided to take the trash out now, he would see you and assume the worst like he always did. And then there would be an even bigger issue to deal with.
The car door opened outside, and you heard his dress shoes clicking on the pavement. The sound seemed to echo through your mind, and each one grew louder. Louder. Coming like a freight train, unable to be stopped by anyone.
The front door opened, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach grew as he stepped inside. That old familiar topsy-turvy sensation of excitement was long replaced by now.
He carried a bouquet of roses, for you as always. He was predictable as ever, every payday he would bring in the fresh flowers with which to decorate the dining room table. But roses? This was a first.
Smiling and pushing a shock of dark hair from his face he watched you slowly approaching. "What's that face for?" your boyfriend asked, his tone mildly amused. He handed over the flowers to you, kissing your cheek when you were close enough. On habit you flinched away, though you tried desperately to play it off as though you simply couldn't wait to get the flowers into some water. You said nothing, hurrying to the kitchen to set them into a vase and praying to whatever unnamed god that he wouldn't follow you.
Luck was not on your side that day. He followed you on your heels, his eyes scanning the spotless house. "Perfect," he murmured, still smiling. He hadn't noticed yet.
You trimmed the stems with the kitchen shears in the sink, as opposed to over the trash can like you wanted to. Purposely keeping your attention away from the overflowing can, in a vain attempt to keep his attention away, as well. The stem ends fell into the metal sink loudly, almost too loud, and you wanted to burst into tears. You nearly did.
How could you have been so stupid?
"Are you all right?" he asked, concern lining his handsome face. His hand turned your head to face his, and you wanted to run away from that awful, creeping feeling that his touch gave you. "You seem off today. Did something happen?"
You couldn't just not answer. "N-no," you murmured. "Nothing happened. I've been cleaning the house like you wanted me to," you added, your lips thin.
"So I see. And it looks wonderful, darling, it really--" His head had turned towards the trash can at long last. Flashbacks of past incidents filled your brain, and your fight or flight instincts started to kick in, though you knew precisely what would happen.
You couldn't run. Not even if you wanted to.
"You've forgotten to take the trash out," your boyfriend commented, almost casually. He began to unbutton his jacket, and you dropped the roses into the sink, heart pounding wildly.
"I'm sorry, really, I'm so sorry, I just haven't had the time to do it, I got so busy with the bathtub this week, and--"
"Cleaning the house shouldn't be taking you all day. It's a small enough area, isn't it?" His voice had an edge, one that made your stomach drop.
Now you couldn't stop the tears, overflowing as you cried over the sink. You wanted so badly to vomit out of fear, but he hated that; it would have made things worse still.
Rolling up his sleeves neatly, he sighed as though this was just another mundane task to do. Like his own job, working at whatever corporation he did. Having to wear a business suit daily would allow for nothing less, after all, though you were hazy on the details about his occupation. They didn't matter; after all, it wasn't like he would actually tell you.
With strength you had felt before he lifted you, throwing you against the opposite wall. Glasses on the shelves nearby rattled, and one even toppled over, shattering on the floor. Your thin layer of composure broke, shattering just like the glass beside you as you sobbed. "I've given you plenty of reasons why I ask you to do a simple thing, darling, why must you make it so difficult for me?" He spoke to you as though he was chastising a child, and weren't you being childish after all?
Your back ached. It was not the first time that week that he had thrown you, nor would it be the last. Bruises littered your body, and you couldn't even count the number of scars he had given you in the past.
Why didn't you leave? You couldn't. You were hardly allowed to leave the house, much less the neighborhood, even to do the grocery shopping.
And besides, if you ran, he would find you. He would always find you.
You had tried, once before. You simply walked out, seeking help from anyone who would be willing, but he had come home early that day as a bit of a surprise, wanting to celebrate some small triumph at work. Instead he came home to an empty house.
What he had done to you that day, you hardly dared to dwell on it. It hurt to think about, and terrified you as well. Ever since then you had been under a sort of house arrest.
"Answer me," he warned, lifting you by your upper arms and shaking you like a rag doll. "I said answer me!" His voice boomed through the small house, and only made you sob harder. This sickened him, backhanding you across the face as he dropped you onto the floor again.
"I'm s-s-sorry...!" you wailed, curling up against the wall and away from him. Anything to get away from him.
"I slave at a desk every day for you, and this is how you repay me? Laziness?" Kneeling down he took hold of your face, spitting onto it. All you could do was bear it; fighting back would have killed you. You didn't have the strength to.
