Chapter 1
The bruises were a physical calendar. Some were fading yellow, like old parchment, while others were a fresh, angry violet. On each day, his fist marked her body in a language of violence she had become fluent in. But it wasn't just the physical weight; it was the verbal abuse that acted like acid, slowly eroding her sense of self until she felt she was disappearing.
She lived in the "Every Time." Every time he raised his hand, she wished he would stop. Every time he shouted, she shrank. She was trapped in a house that was no longer a home, waiting for a mercy that never came. She was a spectator to her own suffering, surviving on the thin, fragile hope that tomorrow might be the day he chose to be kind.
