Chapter 1
The trick is to color-correct first.
It sounds ridiculous, I know, starting a story like this with makeup advice, but that’s how my mornings begin now. Before coffee, before breakfast, before I even dare to check my phone... I check the mirror.
I check the damage.
I check myself.
Most people are unsure of how to conceal a bruise properly. They smear foundation over purple and pray it disappears. But bruises don’t vanish from fear or panic. They need patience. They need gentle hands. They need someone who knows that yellow softens purple, green erases red, and peach blends the hues together.
I guess I’ve become good at lying to my own skin.
I lean closer to the mirror; the bathroom lights dimmed, so I don’t have to see it too clearly. The bruise spreads across my cheek like a watercolor painting gone wrong dark in some places, fading in others, blooming in the shape of his hand.
I trace the outline lightly.
It still burns.
“It’s not that bad,” I whisper, because saying it out loud makes it true. “It was my fault anyway.”
My voice cracks not from pain, but from shame. Shame is so much heavier than bruises. Shame digs deeper, sits in your chest, and reminds you that you should have been better. Softer. Quieter. More aware. More... everything.
Color corrector, tap-tap-tap.
Concealer, tap-tap-tap.
Foundation, slow strokes.
Powder, delicate press.
Routine helps. Routine means control. Control means safety.
The bruise slowly disappears, turning from purple to beige, fading from evidence to memory.
If only healing worked that way.
I glance down at the pearl necklace on the counter, the one he gave me after our last argument. He’d said, “You look prettier when you don’t cry,” wiping my tears away with the same hand that caused them. He had kissed my forehead softly after that.
He can be so gentle sometimes.
That’s what makes everything confusing.
I pick up the necklace, the pearls cool and smooth against my fingers. My neck aches when I clasp it, like the skin remembers being held too tightly. But it looks pretty. And he likes it when I look pretty.
“Pretty girls don’t embarrass their husbands,” he said once, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
I swallow hard.
Last night, I embarrassed him.
I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t.
His coworker had leaned in, and the music was loud; I couldn’t hear him. I laughed at something he said about the champagne tasting like cheap soda. It wasn’t even funny. It wasn’t even flirtatious. But I laughed, and apparently, that was enough.
My husband’s fingers dug into my waist so tightly I stopped breathing for a moment. He smiled for the room. He smiled for the photos being taken. But I could feel the warning pulsing from his grip.
“You’re being a little too friendly,” he whispered. “Dial it back.”
I tried. Truly.
But later, when he stepped away to take a call, the coworker approached me again, and I didn’t move away fast enough. Maybe I should have. Maybe that’s where I slipped.
One second of hesitation, one moment where I didn’t immediately anticipate what he might think, and everything fell apart.
I touch my cheek again, now hidden under layers of careful, devoted work.
“He didn’t mean it,” I say to the mirror. “He was just hurt. Or stressed. Or... something.”
Even the excuses sound tired.
Sometimes, when I hear myself defending him, a tiny voice inside says, ’Why are you doing this?′ Why are you making yourself small for him?
But that voice is faint. Faint like a memory. Faint like the woman I used to be before I learned that silence keeps the peace.
Before I learned that even smiling at the wrong time can be a mistake.
I lift a brush and sweep blush across my cheeks just enough to look alive, not enough to draw attention. I blend carefully so the skin doesn’t look irritated. My hands shake a little, but I force them to steady. I need to be perfect today. He said I ruined last night. I need to show him I can make it up to him.
He hates it when I appear to be a victim.
He says it makes him feel guilty, and guilt makes him angry.
And his anger...
His anger hurts more than the slap.
“I was out of line,” I remind myself. “He warned me before. I just... forgot.”
A tear slips out before I can catch it. I swipe it away quickly, terrified the salt might disturb the carefully set makeup.
“No crying,” I whisper. “Crying makes it worse.”
I hear his voice in my head Fix your face. Don’t look pathetic. Don’t make everything about you.
I press lipstick onto my lips, a deep berry shade that covers the cracked skin at the corner of my mouth where his ring cut me. The cut stings, but I smile anyway.
A perfect smile.
A practiced smile.
A smile that says nothing is wrong.
If I convince myself hard enough, maybe it’s true.
I move to the bedroom, slipping on a long-sleeved dress even though it’s warm outside. Purple fingerprints circle my upper arm, too fresh to hide without fabric. They ache when the dress slides over them.
But that’s okay.
That’s my reminder to be better.
I sit on the edge of the bed, clutching the pearls, trying to steady my breathing. My chest feels tight. My ribs feel sore. My mind keeps replaying the moment after the party, the silence in the car, the way his jaw clenched, the way his hand ran through his hair once before he turned toward me.
“You made me look like a fool,” he had said.
I said I was sorry.
He said sorry wasn’t enough.
And then the slap came so fast I didn’t even close my eyes.
The world went silent for a second.
Then he pulled me against him and whispered, “Why do you push me like this?”
Why do I push him?
I wish I knew the answer. I wish I knew how to stop.
I pick up my phone and check the time. He’ll be home soon. He’ll want to see that I’m composed. That I’ve learned. That I’m willing to try harder.
I stand in front of the mirror again.
Smile.
Chin up.
Shoulders back.
Pretend last night didn’t happen.
Pretend everything is normal.
Pretend he loves me the way he used to.
Pretend I haven’t become a woman who knows more about concealers than she knows about herself.
I inhale deeply and whisper, “Today I’ll do better. Today I’ll be perfect.”
Because maybe... just maybe...
if I become perfect enough...
He won’t need to hurt me anymore.
And maybe one day,
I’ll stop hurting myself, too.
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This story contains themes of domestic violence, emotional manipulation, and psychological abuse. These scenes are included for narrative purposes only and are not intended to romanticize, normalize, or glorify any form of harmful behavior.
I want to make it very clear:
I do not condone abuse.
I do not support abusive relationships.
I do not view this behavior as love.
If you recognize any of these signs in your own life, or if you feel unsafe with a partner, friend, or family member, please reach out for help. You deserve safety, support, and compassion.
If you are in the United States, the National Domestic Violence Hotline is available 24/7:
1-800-799-7233 (SAFE)
thehotline.org
If you are outside the U.S., please contact your local emergency number or a domestic violence support organization in your region.
You are not alone. Your safety matters.
