The Affair

“You filthy bitch!” Michael shouted as he threw his beer glass at my head.

I managed to duck just in time and fell down next to the shattered glass he’d already broken earlier.

My arms were covered in bruises, and my lip was bleeding from his furious, pounding fists.

I saw strands of blonde hair on the floor and looked up in fear.

Michael stood over me and kicked me hard in the stomach.

“You’re worthless. Nobody loves you. That’s why your family wants nothing to do with you. That’s why your parents don’t give you money anymore—because you’re useless. What have you achieved? Tell me. What have you ever done besides leeching off me? Worthless bitch. I’ll have you working like a whore for your money. Your pussy is the only good thing about you,” Michael screamed through our small apartment in a rundown building in a poor neighborhood.

We had barely any money, and Michael was an alcoholic. He also gambled and owed money to dangerous people. He took his anger out on me, and because of his control, I no longer spoke to anyone in my family.

They wanted nothing to do with me because I wouldn’t leave Michael.

I couldn’t leave him—not as easily as I wanted to.

He threatened me, abused me, and wouldn’t let me go outside. He didn’t even allow me to work.

He hadn’t been the man I fell in love with for a long time. I was afraid. Afraid of him.

I was becoming someone else—quieter, withdrawn, introverted.

In my dreams, I escaped the apartment countless times. But it never went beyond dreams.

No one called for help, because the building was mostly filled with junkies who also fought constantly.

To others, our fights were just background noise.

I sat trembling on the floor and heard the storm roaring outside and the rain pouring down.

Michael pulled me up from the ground and threw me onto the couch.

He started strangling me, and I couldn’t breathe.

With my weak arms—too weak from barely eating—I hit him in the ribs, but it had no effect.

Then, while flailing my hands around the couch, I felt something between the cushions—a gun.

Michael had hidden a gun in the couch!

He was so focused on me, yelling the worst things, but all I could feel was the cold metal in my hand as I struck him hard on the head.

Michael went unconscious, and I gasped for air as his grip loosened.

I looked at the gun and aimed it at him.

That was when I realized what I had done—and decided not to shoot him.

Honestly, I didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger.

I ran to my room, grabbed my bag, and threw the gun far across the apartment.

As fast as I could, I ran to the front door—but it was locked, with a heavy metal chain securing it.

“F*ck,” I cursed under my breath, realizing that Michael’s bedroom was connected to the balcony of the apartment building.

Michael was still lying unconscious on the floor.

I slipped into his room, which was a disgusting mess, and made my way through the filth scattered everywhere.

The window wasn’t locked, thankfully, and I pushed it open.

A lightning bolt lit up the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder.

This was the first time I’d been outside in years. I didn’t even have shoes on—just my bare feet on the wet surface as I made my way down.

The cold, wet pavement felt like freedom beneath my feet.

Around the corner of the building was a busy street with many cars driving by.

My clothes were soaked from the pouring rain, but the cold actually felt good on my bruises.

I was exhausted and full of adrenaline at the same time. I was in the middle of escaping.

But I hadn’t gotten far. I didn’t have any money for a bus or taxi—or even for food.

This wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, and I began to cry quietly.

I figured I should at least cross the street and walk as far away from the chaos as possible.

I looked left and right and started to cross.

Suddenly, a car honked loudly, and I jumped back onto the curb, turning around.

A beige car screeched to a stop next to me and honked again.

The window rolled down, and a man started yelling at me.

“I almost hit you! Watch where you’re going!” he shouted angrily.

But when he saw my face and bruised arms, his expression changed.

He looked shocked and concerned, then pulled the car up onto the sidewalk.

He got out and slowly walked toward me.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you need help?”

I looked at him. It was the first time in years someone had genuinely asked how I was doing.

“I can see… you’re hurt. Can I take you somewhere? It’s way too cold out here,” he added, shielding his head from the rain with his jacket.

“Should I call 911?” he asked, and I immediately shook my head.

“No! No, don’t call the police,” I said, clearly panicked.

“Okay,” he replied hesitantly. “I can get you a motel room? So you have a place to sleep.”

I looked back at Michael’s apartment and realized I had to think fast about my next move.

I got into the car, clutching my bag tightly. I had no other choice.

Otherwise, Michael would find me again.

Soft music played in the car as raindrops pelted the windshield.

His car was spotless. No empty McDonald’s bags or soda cans.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“Heather,” I replied.

“Ramon,” he said. “Ramon Rider.”

That name rang a bell.

“Ramon Rider?” I repeated, looking into his brown eyes.

I faintly recognized his face—and I could tell he recognized mine too.

“Wait. Heather Winston?” he asked, and I nodded.

“We went to elementary school together,” he said with a laugh. “What are the odds!”

It was strange—but also incredibly embarrassing.

It had been 14 years since I last went to elementary school.

And now, this is how he saw me.

Ramon and I had been friends back then. Not super close, but we’d sometimes eat lunch together in the bathroom.

We were both bullied—me occasionally, but Ramon all the time.

“I was always happy when you came into the bathroom,” he said, and I gave a faint smile.

“Thankfully, we’ll never have to go through that again,” I said softly, then realized how I must look.

“What happened? Who did this to you?” he asked, but I didn’t know what to say and stayed quiet.

“Your boyfriend?” he asked.

“Ex,” I replied quickly. “He’s nothing to me now.”

“You need to report this,” he said. “I’m a private investigator. I can help you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. But first, let’s get you something to eat. Feel like Taco Bell? Or Burger King?”