December

Chapter 8 Where Cowards Bleed

(Ryder)

(Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence)

December. The month of endings, of brittle wind and bare trees, of breath turned visible and time slowed by silence.

There's something haunting about it—how it wraps the year in a shroud of finality but still carries the ghost of hope, of something new just waiting at the edge of frost. She had that same duality.

December. The woman. A name that tasted like warmth in the coldest parts of my chest.

I met her when I thought I was finally free. But there's no such thing as free—not when the past has teeth and a name like Mira.

It started like a coincidence.

I was training late one night at the gym where I coached—just paperwork, end-of-month stuff.

She walked in, said she was new in town, just wanted to take a look around.

Tall, slim, brown hair pinned back in a way that made her cheekbones look carved from marble.

Blue eyes. The kind of beauty that people call classic, like she belonged to another era.

She smiled like she already knew me. And when she asked me out, I was.

.. flattered. Surprised. She was the daughter of a senator—a powerful public figure.

I kept wondering why someone like her would want someone like me.

It didn't stop there. She started showing up at the coffee shop I always went to before work.

Shopping outside my apartment on weekends.

Signing up for a trial at the very gym where I worked.

At first, I thought it was just fate. Things people say when they want to believe the universe is playing matchmaker.

I was naive.

We dated for months. She was the perfect girlfriend.

Attentive to every detail. She'd show up with my favorite snacks, knew what groceries I needed before I even realized I was out of them.

It was like being in a movie—one where I was the main character and she was written to adore me.

The only thing that felt off was her constant need for reassurance.

"Tell me you love me." "Promise me I'm enough.

" "You're not looking at anyone else, right?

" But I figured—hey, we've all got baggage.

And then it happened.

It was a regular evening. I'd stopped by the café on the way back. The barista smiled at me—friendly, nothing more. I didn't even smile back. But Mira noticed. When we got home, she exploded.

"You think I don't see the way she looks at you?" she screamed, throwing the remote so hard it shattered against the wall. "You fucking smiled back, didn't you? You wanted her to think you were single—"

"I didn't!" I tried to stay calm. "I didn't even look at her."

"Liar!" She pushed me. Not a playful nudge—a shove that sent me stumbling into the couch. Then she dropped to the floor and started crying, sobbing, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just—I love you so much. Please don't hate me. Please don't leave me. You're all I have."

I told myself it was a one-time thing.

But it wasn't.

It became a pattern. If I forgot something—even a detail she mentioned—she'd insult me.

Call me selfish, a liar, a cheat. If I looked up when a waitress asked for our order, she'd kick me under the table.

One night, I was late coming home and she slapped me so hard I saw stars.

Then she cried again, made my favorite meal, sat in my lap and whispered how sorry she was.

"You make me crazy," she'd say. "I only act like this because I'm afraid to lose you."

I don't know how I kept forgiving her.

Maybe it started long before I even met her—back when I was just a boy who lost everything too soon.

When you bury both your parents before you've even figured out who you are, you learn to cling to what's left.

My aunt took me in, did the best she could, but I always felt like a guest in my own life.

Loved, but not belonged. Safe, but not wanted.

So when Mira looked at me like I was her whole world, it felt like sunlight after years of shadow. She saw me. Or at least, I thought she did.

And when she loved me, it was overwhelming. All-consuming. The kind of love that wrapped around me like a home I didn't know I'd been searching for. That kind of love makes you blind. It makes you grateful for scraps. It teaches you that pain is the price of closeness.

I think that's how she got in—through the cracks of a boy who never stopped mourning what he lost. A boy who still thought maybe if he could just be enough, someone would finally stay.

So I forgave her.

When she yelled, it wasn't just loud—it was violent.

Like her voice was trying to crack me open.

She'd scream until the walls shook, until neighbors banged on their ceilings or walls, and even then she wouldn't stop.

It wasn't just anger—it was fury that demanded an audience, and I was always the one standing in the blast zone.

She twisted my words until I didn't recognize them.

Until I started wondering if I'd really said what I thought I did—if maybe I was cruel, or cold, or heartless like she said.

I'd leave a room to cool down, and she'd call that abandonment.

I'd raise my voice once, and suddenly I was abusive.

Somehow, I always ended up apologizing for things I hadn't done.

When she threw things, it wasn't random.

It was calculated. A wine glass that shattered inches from my head.

My helmet, my tools—things that mattered to me.

Once, it was my mother's photo. The frame cracked.

I remember standing there, frozen, staring at the broken glass and hearing her laugh like I was being dramatic.

She slammed doors like she wanted to tear them off the hinges. She'd lock me out when she was angry—sometimes for hours, sometimes all night. Once, I slept in the hallway, afraid that if I left, it'd make things worse.

And then there were the nights she touched me like I was hers to punish.

She'd dig her nails into my skin—not in passion, but in power.

She liked to leave marks. Red streaks down my back that bled into my shirt.

Bruises on my arms where she gripped too tight.

One time, she bit my shoulder hard enough to scar.

Said she wanted to leave something that stayed.

Like she was branding me. I didn't even fight back.

I just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes closed, praying it would pass.

I told myself she was just hurting. That her love was just... broken. Like mine. That she lashed out because she was afraid, because the world had been cruel to her and she didn't know how to be soft anymore.

And when the storm passed—God, she'd be so gentle. She'd cry like a child. Apologize with trembling hands and kisses that tasted like guilt. She'd hold me like I was the one who needed comforting. Whisper that she was scared I'd leave her, that no one else would ever understand her the way I did.

And the worst part?

I believed her.

I let her break me, piece by piece, because I thought that was what love meant.

Because I'd lost too much too young, and some part of me thought maybe this pain was the price for being needed by the girl with the golden laugh and soft hands.

The one who made me feel wanted, like maybe I wasn't just some orphan trying to earn a place in someone's life.

She knew exactly how to touch my face, how to lace her fingers through mine and say all the right things.

And God, I wanted to believe her. I needed to.

Because when you've built your world around someone, it's easier to believe you're overreacting than to admit the foundation's already cracked beneath you. So I kept forgiving her.

Maybe it was survival. Maybe it was how she cried after hurting me, the way her voice trembled with apologies that sounded real, even when they weren't. Maybe it was how she kissed the bruises she left behind like she could erase them. Like she could rewrite the story before the ink dried.

Part of me still clung to that early version of her—the girl who looked at me like I hung the moon, who laughed like she'd never known heartbreak, who made me feel chosen. Wanted. Worshiped.

That version of her became my ghost. I chased it every time she turned cold.

I waited for it in every silence after the storm.

And when she showed glimpses of it—a soft smile, a lingering kiss—I took it as proof that maybe the monster wasn't real.

I convinced myself that girl was still inside her.

That if I was patient enough, if I loved hard enough, she'd come back.

Maybe I just imagined it. Maybe I was the problem.

That's how it works, doesn't it? You start rewriting your own reality to survive theirs. You convince yourself that love should hurt a little. That forgiveness is strength. That staying is loyalty. That being broken together is better than being whole alone.

But it wasn't love. It was fear wrapped in the memory of affection.

And I was just a man too wounded to let go.

A man who trained others to be strong. Who could lift double his weight, teach discipline, hold his own in any fight. People came to me to feel safer in their own bodies. Parents trusted me with their kids. Young men looked up to me like I had all the answers.

But behind closed doors, I flinched when a woman raised her voice. I took punches from someone I loved and never once raised a hand back—not because I couldn't, but because I couldn't stomach who I'd become if I did.

She hit me. She screamed at me. Slapped me. She spat cruel things in my face. And every time, I stayed. Not because I didn't know it was wrong. But because the shame of it—of being me, a man who trained for self-defense, a man built like a wall—being me and letting it happen?

That shame was heavier than her fists.

What kind of man gets hit and doesn't leave? What kind of man hides bruises and bites under long sleeves?

I looked in the mirror and didn't see a survivor. I saw a coward. A failure. Someone who let love turn him into something small and voiceless.

Because men like me—we're not supposed to be victims.

We're not supposed to stay. But I did. Again and again. I made excuses for her, minimized what she did, told myself that love was messy, that she was just hurting, that if I was better, she'd stop.

And when she didn't, I told myself maybe I deserved it. Because walking away would've meant facing what I'd become. And back then, that was the scariest thing of all.

But one night, she cut me. And not just a scratch. I almost bled out on the kitchen floor.

It started like it always did—with yelling.

Accusations. She was convinced I was cheating again, convinced I was lying to her about a coworker I barely even talked to.

Her eyes were wild, her voice shaking with rage.

She grabbed the nearest thing—a wine glass—and shattered it against the wall.

Shards flew everywhere. I didn't even flinch. I was too used to the chaos by then.

But then she picked up one of the jagged pieces.

Waved it in my face.

I told her to put it down. Tried to calm her. Tried to reach her through the storm like I always did. I stepped closer, arms up. "Please, just give me the glass."

She screamed something I don't even remember now, something hateful—and when I reached for her wrist, she jerked back. The glass tore across the inside of my forearm. Deep. Instant heat. Blood poured like someone opened a faucet.

I remember falling to my knees. Watching red stain the floor.

She froze.

Then came the panic. "It was an accident," she kept saying, over and over, voice small now. "Baby, I didn't mean to—please—please—"

But I couldn't hear her anymore. Not over the roar in my ears.

Because that was the moment it hit me.

She's going to kill me.

Not today. Maybe not next week. But if I stayed, one night, during another one of those spirals—she'd lose control just long enough to end me. And no one would ever believe she meant to.

Not someone like me. Not a man. Not a coach. Not the guy everyone thought had it all together.

But I knew the truth. And I finally understood: if I didn't leave, I wouldn't survive her love.

That night, I told her it was over.

But breaking up didn't break the spell.

Three months after we split, I brought someone into my home—she was a coworker who needed help printing something late at night. My home office was closer than the company building. Mira called from an unknown number. I didn't pick up. She called again. I answered.

"If she's not out in five minutes," she said, voice low and venomous, "you'll both regret it."

That's when I knew—there were cameras. In my house. My sanctuary. Violated.

After that, Mira vanished. For weeks, there was silence. No messages. No shadows trailing behind me. No notes. It was almost enough to hope.

And then came Anne.

We'd worked together briefly—she handled PR for a youth outreach program at the gym. Smart, kind, cautious. Nothing between us. Just polite small talk and quiet respect. One day, after a long shift, we grabbed coffee. A normal moment. Harmless.

But Mira had been watching.

She always was.

A few days later, I walked out of the gym and there she was—Anne—standing near my car. Pale. Shaking. Mira was behind her, pressing a knife to her throat, whispering something I couldn't hear. My heart lodged in my throat.

I froze.

"Don't move," Mira called. "She touched what's mine."

I begged. I pleaded. I said Anne didn't know, that it wasn't like that, that she had no idea. That she was innocent.

Mira tilted her head, like she was studying something small and pathetic.

And then she shoved Anne into the street.

The scream. The car. The thud.

Anne lived. By some miracle, she lived.

But I'll never forget the sound of her body hitting the pavement. Or the way Mira watched it happen, calm as ever, like she'd simply knocked over a vase.

Her father cleaned it all up. He paid Anne's medical bills. Cut her a check that could silence anyone. Made her sign an NDA and disappear. No cops. No headlines. Just blood, silence, and shame.

Then he called me.

"She's had issues," he said, voice clipped, controlled. "But it's never been this bad. You've been her obsession for years. She's threatened women before—scared them off. I've handled it. Quietly. But this... this could ruin my campaign."

He sighed.

"You need to understand—it won't stop. Not until the election is over. And maybe not even then."

His advice wasn't really advice.

"Leave," he said. "Or she'll destroy you. Or someone else."

So I left again.

And that's when I met December.

God, December.

She walked into my life like sunlight pouring through a crack in a boarded-up window.

She didn't know what she was fixing—she just loved.

Loudly. Softly. Completely. She'd blush when she got nervous, laugh too hard at her own jokes, hum songs while she cooked. She didn't tiptoe around me—she saw me.

And I fell. So fucking hard.

But I couldn't let her in too close. Not with Mira still lurking.

So I kept her hidden.

I never brought her to my place—I knew Mira had cameras.

I memorized Mira's schedule, only visiting December when I was sure it was safe.

I told her lies—half-truths with pretty edges.

And every time I kissed her goodbye, I felt like a coward.

But I was terrified she'd tell someone. Post a photo.

Mention me. I don't think she ever realized how dangerous Mira was.

And I constantly had to placate Mira—every day was a performance, every conversation a balancing act.

I told her we'd become official after the election, that I just wanted to keep things quiet until the media heat cooled down.

I spun it like we were in some kind of sacred honeymoon phase, that keeping it private made it more special, more intimate.

Of course, no sex. I told her it would be more romantic if we waited—painted it like some kind of slow-burn love story.

"It'll mean more," I'd say, watching her eyes soften just enough.

"Let's build this right." But the truth was, my skin crawled every time she touched me.

I was buying time. Stalling. Trying to keep her from noticing how I flinched, how I never stayed too long, how I always had an excuse.

And the sick part was—she was actually happy. Genuinely, eerily content. Because in her mind, as long as I didn't leave, I was hers. I could be cold, distant, silent. I could pull away physically, emotionally, mentally—but if I stayed, it meant she still owned me.

She was obsessed, yes—but it was laced with this twisted arrogance. Like she believed no one else could ever have me. Like she'd already won.

Every time I dodged a question or smoothed over a confrontation, she'd smirk like she'd caught me in some kind of emotional trap. She'd say things like, "You always come back to me." Or worse, "I know you better than you know yourself."

She wore my silence like a trophy. My fear was proof of her power. She thought I was tethered—too weak to run, too guilty to fight back. And I started to wonder if maybe she was right.

Then came that day.

December brought cake to the gym. Mira was there—always watching, always listening. Later, she pulled me into the office.

"She likes you," she said, too calm. "Doesn't she? You better be careful. Girls like that... they end up in hospitals. Or worse."

So I made December smaller. Tucked her deeper into shadows. Tried to protect her by pretending she didn't matter.

But she mattered more than anything.

And Mira knew. She could feel it.

That night December found us, Mira had shown up unannounced, wrapped herself around me. I played the role—mocked December like she was some charity case, like she didn't matter.

But December looked wrecked. She stood frozen, listening, watching. And I had to keep going. Had to pretend it was all true. Because Mira was suspicious. December was too bold, too confident—too loving by coming here dressed as such.

When she left, Mira snapped. She yelled. Screamed. Accused.

Then she hit me. Open palm across the face. Hard.

I stared at her, dazed. "Really?" I asked. "Again?"

Her rage crumbled. Tears replaced it. She apologized. Sobbed. Said she didn't mean to. Said I made her do it. Said she was broken and scared and in love.

And just like that—I was back in the cycle.

I reassured her. Promised her everything she needed to hear. Swore December was nothing. Mira wiped her tears, nodded because she believed me. I walked home pretending to be tired. But I didn't go home.

I walked two more blocks to a coffee shop, went into the restroom, locked the door—and cried and cried until my chest hurt.

I cried for the man still getting hit by a woman. I cried for the coward too scared to stop it. I cried for the liar who thought love could be hidden like shame.

I cried for December.

And I cried because for the first time—I believed Mira.

I was stupid.

I was just muscle and mistakes.

A dumb dog that keeps going back to the leash. A pathetic shell of a man—fragile, fucked up, and so in love with someone I swore I'd protect... only to end up destroying her instead...