5. Eli
Eli
I sit in the hospital cubicle with the curtains drawn, looking at Marge.
Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, her lashes clumping together even though she’s long past crying.
Mine sting worse than I expected; the makeup I fought so hard to layer over everything has given up completely.
There’s no hiding it now. Not from her. Not from anyone.
A tight pressure builds behind my eyes, the kind that warns a breakdown is close. My throat feels scraped raw, and my chest pulls tight like my ribs are trying to hold everything in place.
Marge has questions. I can see them forming behind her eyes, but she doesn’t speak them. She just holds them there, heavy and careful, like she’s afraid of what they might do if she lets them out.
Instead, she reaches for my hand and doesn’t let go.
Neither of us speaks. We don’t touch the obvious. Not yet. It’s too raw, too exposed, and entirely too close to breaking something neither of us knows how to fix. So we stay like that, holding on in silence, pretending it is enough.
A soft scratch at the curtain makes me flinch. My heart jumps hard enough to blur my vision, my shoulders tensing into an ingrained reflex I barely notice anymore. I wipe at my face too quickly, smearing what’s left of the makeup across my cheek.
Marge notices the movement before I can recover. “Come in,” she says.
Ree steps inside with a clipboard and a cup of medication, then stops. Her eyes move between us in one sweep, and the room shifts.
“Everything alright?” she asks, carefully neutral, giving us the dignity of choosing our truth.
Marge gives a small shake of her head. That’s all it takes. Ree looks at me, and I turn slightly toward her.
She freezes. Not dramatically, but with the stillness of someone registering something they were entirely unprepared for.
Her eyes take in the damage: the harsh colors beneath the broken makeup, the swelling I couldn’t disguise, the exhaustion I can’t mask.
Then her gaze drops to Marge’s hand, still locked around mine.
Heat crawls up my neck, heavy and suffocating. Shame settles under my skin, thick enough to make my vision swim as I feel myself distancing from my own body.
“I fucking knew it,” Ree hisses.
The words hang there, sharp enough to cut the air.
“Ree,” Marge says firmly, anchoring me without judgment. “He doesn’t need judgment right now.”
Something in Ree’s expression shifts instantly. She exhales a slow, controlled breath, forcing herself back into her present. She places the clipboard and medication on the bedside table, crouches down beside us, and covers our hands with hers.
Her voice breaks at the edges. “Eli… it has to stop. Please.”
The room goes very still. I stare down at our hands, layered together like something fragile trying not to fall apart. My chest caves inward, and a tremor runs through my fingers. The truth hits so hard my breath stutters.
“I don’t know how,” I whisper.
Marge squeezes my fingers once. Steady.
Ree straightens slowly, looking between us. “We’ll take that as a yes. I know somewhere private. Come on, I’ll grab a wheelchair.” She glances at Marge. “I’m guessing you want in on this conversation?”
“Damn bloody straight,” Marge replies instantly.
* * *
Half an hour later, we’re sitting in an empty doctor’s office with three untouched coffees cooling between us. The room feels too clinical for what we’re holding.
Ree talks first, filling the space with safe things: shift changes, medication schedules, small updates about Marge’s treatment. Anything to avoid looking at the elephant in the room. But it’s still here, sitting heavily between us.
They don’t ask who did it; they know. They don’t ask why I stayed; I can’t answer that yet. Instead, Ree looks right at me and asks the one question I wasn’t prepared for.
“Are you safe?”
The words land harder than anything else. I realize I’ve been bracing for an interrogation when what she’s offering is truth. I look at her, and nothing I’ve rehearsed fits.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Ree nods once. Not in agreement, but in recognition of my limits. “Alright. Then let’s keep things simple for today. Tonight, you’re coming to my place for dinner. No pressure. Just somewhere else for a few hours. We can talk properly then.”
My throat tightens instantly. “He’s home.”
She reads my face before replying. “Then tell him it’s dinner with my family and Marge. Keep it simple, like my kid’s birthday. Anything that gets you out the door.”
I nod, though I know it isn’t a promise, just a hope I’m not sure I’m allowed to keep. A cold ripple moves through me. Leaving the hospital feels like stepping off a ledge.
Before I can stop myself, Ree steps forward and pulls me into a hug.
My body locks up on instinct, but then something inside me cracks open.
A soft, starved sound escapes before I can swallow it down.
Marge joins a second later, wrapping her other arm around my back.
For a moment, I just exist in their warmth. No judgment. Just space to breathe.
* * *
I spend the rest of the day in that office. The doctor is on leave, letting me stay hidden. Ree checks in when she can, and Marge stays close between treatments. They don’t let me disappear, but I spend the hours waiting, still unable to imagine how I’ll ever leave Adrian.
That evening, I park my bike outside Ree’s place and stand frozen for a moment. The door opens before I knock, and Ree pulls me inside.
The house feels alive, warm, and entirely foreign.
Family photos line the walls, ordinary moments made visible, and lived-in.
Before Adrian, normalcy like this was just how life worked.
But at Adrian’s, personal belongings had slowly vanished to fit his aesthetic, until my memories were erased from the walls.
When we sit down to eat with the kids moving around us, I wait out of habit. A learned behavior. No one reaches for food. They are waiting for me.
My chest tightens, breathing quickening into a sharp spike of panic. Every muscle locks. Marge notices, quietly taking my plate and serving it herself. “A little of everything,” she says simply.
When she sets it down, it’s too much, too real. I sit frozen for a second before eating quietly, watching the room. For once, the noise doesn’t feel like danger. It just feels like life.
When dinner ends, I stand automatically to clear the dishes. The warm water runs over my hands in the sink, the bubbles blurring as my eyes sting. The confession breaks free before I can stop it.
“I keep thinking it’s my fault,” I say quietly.
Marge’s voice comes first, gentle. “Why?”
“He gets angry.”
Ree exhales slowly, choosing her words with care. “Everyone gets angry, Eli. But what you’re describing… that isn’t anger.”
The truth lands before my mind can block it out. Marge takes one of my hands from the sink; Ree takes the other. They don’t pull or rush. They just hold on.
A call echoes from deeper in the house. “Mum!” breaking the moment. Marge gives me a sideways glance with a faint flicker of humor. “Saved by the children.”
A small, unfamiliar laugh slips out of me.
Then my phone vibrates in my pocket. Once. Twice.
Everything in me stills. I know who it is. I pull it out, the screen illuminating the dark.
Adrian.
My blood runs cold. My breath shortens. “I have to answer,” I whisper, swiping the screen. “Hey, Aidy.”
“Where are you?” His voice is low, controlled, and sharp at the edges.
I glance at Marge, whose eyes steady me. “Remember? I told you I was at Ree’s for dinner.”
My words are met with silence for what feels like an eternity. I am about to ask if he is still there when he speaks. “You need to come home.”
My stomach drops. “I’ll be home soon, Aidy. We’re just having dessert. I’ll head back after that, okay?”
Another pause. Then his tone shifts to something softer, and far worse. “No. I need you home. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
A cold sweat breaks across my skin. My instincts scream at me to run, but my feet stay planted.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Good.” The line goes dead.
Ree steps close. “You don’t have to. ”
“I do,” I say automatically, because obedience is the only rule that’s ever mattered.
I grab my jacket. Ree catches my hand at the door. “You call me if anything feels wrong.”
Marge presses my hand hard enough to ground me through the numbness. “Don’t you disappear on us.”
I nod, unable to speak, and leave.
* * *
I get home to music drifting through the house and the smell of food already in the air. It throws me for a second. It’s too soft, too normal. Adrian only cooks when he’s in a good mood, and that alone makes something in my chest loosen before I can stop it.
I find the table set, candles lit, everything arranged with quiet precision. Adrian is in the kitchen finishing up, and when he hears me, he turns immediately. He walks over and takes my hand, pressing a kiss to my forehead. There’s warmth in him tonight, and I smile at him.
I’m caught between wanting to believe that he is in a good mood, and knowing better. His softness feels like a trap disguised as comfort.
For a split second, Ree’s kitchen flickers through my mind; Laughter, home, hands that didn’t feel like they were waiting for me to get something wrong. And just like that, doubt creeps in.
Maybe I read too much into it, and I’m overthinking everything. Maybe things are getting better and that I can trust him more. Perhaps I can still fix this.
Adrian guides me to the table and places a plate in front of me before sitting down. The candles between us throw soft light across the room, but I can’t settle into it. Not fully.
He starts eating like everything is normal.
I look down at my plate, then back at him. My stomach is still tight from earlier at Ree’s, from food I only just managed to get through. I can feel it sitting there already, heavy and unwelcoming. I don’t understand what he is doing; He knows I’ve eaten.
“Aidy…”
His eyes lift slightly. “Yes, sweetheart.”