Chapter 1
Kayla
In the depths of anguish, there were only three words that kept me alive—three words that surged through the suffocating fog of terror. As his hands tightened around my throat, stealing my breath, I felt the grip of my worst nightmare closing in. Every instinct screamed for me to surrender, to let the darkness pull me under. But in the deepest, most desperate corners of my mind, a fierce whisper broke through the chaos, rising above the fear and despair:
Don’t stop fighting.
I whispered them over and over like a prayer, like a lifeline in the darkest moment of my life. It could’ve ended that night—so easily, it could have possibly been my last breath, my last scream, my last tear. The violence that surged through that house felt like it would swallow me whole. His hands... his words... the crushing reality of what could happen next. I fought because I had to. Because surrender meant losing everything—my body, my soul, maybe my life.
Don’t stop fighting.
That’s how I ended up here, on this late night bus trip, crammed into an unforgiving, narrow seat. Blessed for the marble fruit bowl he gifted me last year for Christmas. I was far from free, but I was alive. Barely. My body was a mess of soreness, every muscle and joint a reminder of how much I had to give just to escape. I shifted in my seat, the stiffness biting into me, as if the memories themselves lived beneath my skin. The bruises, the scars on my soul—they were maps of all the battles I’d fought, each one a marker of a different hell he’d put me through.
I winced as I moved, forcing myself to sit up straighter. My mind started to drift, pulling me back to that house. His house. No—our house. Except it never really felt like I had anything to do with it. He filled every inch of that space, just like he had filled every inch of me—smothered me until there was nothing left of the girl I used to be, or the girl I dreamed to be one day. I traded one hell for another hell, unknowingly.
The air in that bus was thick and stale, weighed down by the musty odor of the woman beside me. Her presence was oppressive, her bulk spilling over into my seat, her worn-out clothes clinging to her with a sour scent of sweat and neglect. Her eyes—yellowed and bloodshot—told a story of too many nights spent with the bottle. She stank of regret, of a life lost to bad decisions. Her body pressed against mine, her elbow greedily claiming the armrest, and I didn’t even have the energy to fight for it. Not after everything.
I shifted again, adjusting my duffle bag under my feet, clutching my purse tight to my chest like it held more than just my few belongings. My entire existence was packed into those two bags. Everything I had left of me, of my life, of my escape.
The bus rattled on, the rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt was the only thing keeping me tethered to the present. A loud thud echoed through the cabin—a water bottle crashing to the floor—and I jumped, my body tensing as if he was right behind me, reaching for me again. My heart pounded in my chest, my skin prickling with cold fear.
The woman beside me shot me a nasty look, like I had personally offended her. Her watery eyes glared at me, but I could tell—she was judging the bruises on my neck, the marks I couldn’t hide, not even under my hoodie. They crept up from my collar, dotting my neck like dark stains, the fingerprints of his cruelty. She didn’t say anything, but her disdain was loud and clear. And yet, I didn’t care. I’d lived through worse than her silent judgment.
I didn’t know how long I’d been on this bus. Hours blurred into one another. I didn’t have a phone or a watch, and I didn’t dare ask the woman next to me for the time. I had boarded late into the evening, and now it was still dark, save for the faint glow of the moon outside the window. The bus felt like a limbo, suspended between two lives—between the one I was fleeing and whatever came next.
I rubbed my tired eyes, my body on the verge of giving out. It must’ve been hours since I’d dozed off, my muscles so stiff I could barely move. I shifted again, trying to stretch out my legs, but space was unforgiving here. My eyes fluttered open just as the first hint of sun crept over the horizon, casting golden rays between the towering buildings, bathing the city in a soft, warm glow. The driver’s voice crackled over the speaker, announcing the stop in Cleveland, and I realized I needed a transfer. Joliet, Illinois was already behind me, and the next leg of this journey was still unknown. I hadn’t decided yet—didn’t need to. My only plan was to keep going east, as far as this road would take me, until I hit water.
For the next leg, I found myself beside a small, frail-looking woman, her Asian features tired and delicate, like she hadn’t slept in days. Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was running too. Her hands stayed folded in her lap, her head leaning against the window as her eyes fluttered shut. I envied her for the space she took up—so little of it, making it easier for her to get comfortable. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was running from?
Hell, I wondered that about everyone. Did they know what it was like to be trapped? To have someone take your soul, piece by piece, until you couldn’t recognize yourself anymore? Did they crave freedom the way I did? Or were they just... living their lives, moving from one place to another without a monster sucking the life out of them bit by bit?
I sighed, looking out at the passing suburbs and endless pavement stretching ahead. My life had passed me by, just like this road. Eight years gone. Gone to him. I’m 26 and have nothing to show for it. I had become a ghost in my own body. I had been molded and broken and remade into something I barely recognized—a perfect little puppet in his version of life.
He had boxed me in, strangled me, literally and metaphorically, with his version of love. I had been his perfect woman, always made up just the way he liked, always dressed in the clothes he picked out. Red lipstick, hair done, a smile painted on to hide the bruises. I lived to serve him—dinner on the table by six, everything neat and orderly, just like in some sick 1950s fantasy. But we weren’t married, thank God for that. He didn’t believe in it. Marriage was too much of a commitment for him, but controlling every aspect of my life? That was easy.
