He kissed me on the forehead this morning, as he always does. Too gently, too perfectly—as if his lips could remove the bruises that had left no trace. I smiled back. Trained, obedient, and dead inside. He left, clicked the lock, and only then did I allow myself to exhale — briefly and quietly. Even the air here belonged exclusively to him.
I walked through the kitchen on autopilot. Plates with half-eaten scrambled eggs, his cup with a saliva mark on the rim, the knife he used to cut the orange—I gathered everything in silence, as if adhering to a script in which I had long been assigned the role of servant.
The dishwasher groaned, as if it was also against it. I shoved the dishes inside and slammed the door shut, the sound so loud it felt like I'd been slapped again. Everything was quiet. Everything was fine. He was gone.
Plates shards lay on the baseboard, covered in a brown pattern of dried blood. Not his. Mine. A reminder of yesterday's argument. My fingers trembled, and my breathing quickened—not from fear, but from exhaustion. From the mundane routine. From this, damn it, predictability. New expensive dishes appeared in our house on a weekly basis. It was almost like a tradition to throw things at me for no apparent reason.
"When are you going to learn how to cook properly?!" A plate landed loudly on the floor next to me. I instinctively recoiled, but it was too late—the glass shattered, and one of the shards cut my hand.
I hissed, pressing my fingers into my palm to prevent the blood from dripping on the floor. This could lead to serious consequences. He disliked it when I stained the house with blood or other fluids.
"Errin, you're home all day! The house is your responsibility. My food is your responsibility. My peace of mind is your responsibility."
He moved closer. Right up to me. I could smell his cologne, which made me extremely anxious. Unfortunately, the cologne was objectively excellent, but I would never be able to enjoy it.
"Please, Mike..." I said quietly.
"What?" he asked, grinning. He grasped my chin and squeezed it like a vice. I didn't cry, only hissed in pain. I had not cried in front of him in a long time. That made him crazy. "Please, what?"
I looked him in the eyes and did not respond. Perhaps over time, I became more tolerant of such behavior. "Be grateful that you have me," he said quietly, leaning close to my ear. "Other people are less fortunate. Others sell themselves cheaply in an alleyway. And you sat here like a princess."
Mike pushed my chin away so hard that I felt a crack in my neck from the sharp turn.
I put my hand to my chin. It had swollen slightly overnight and turned a light blue. There would probably be a significant bruise. While cleaning, I caught my reflection in the mirror and couldn't help but remember how it all started. Back then, my chestnut hair was soft and manageable, my eyes were bright, and my skin was flawless.
I'd like to say that I was a stupid, naive fool who was seduced by money and desired to live in a fairytale, but instead ended up in a cage with a murderer. But it was far more practical than that.
My father was supposed to go to prison seven years ago for grand theft. There were additional charges that would have made my father's time in prison extremely unpleasant. Mike managed to get him out, and I paid the price. Forced marriage in the twenty-first century? Easy!
So, we were never a happy family. I believe we were raised solely to be slaughtered or sold, as harsh as that sounds.
Mike made it clear who was in charge from the start. Escorting, cleaning, and sex with his partners as needed for business. I only leave the house when he needs an escort to an event.
Today is one of those evenings, so I have some work to do with a brush and foundation to conceal all evidence of our domestic life.
I went out onto the balcony and observed how people's lives are currently going. Cars are driving along, honking at one another. Girls in heels, silk scarves, and Birkin bags head to beauty salons, while a man walks his French bulldog nearby. Life goes on, and to be honest, I'm tired of realizing how quickly it passes me by. I'm 25, and I could go to school, get a job, or just run away. And that is exactly what I plan to do.
I unlocked my phone and took a menthol cigarette, crossing my skinny legs on the coffee table. Mike sent a new notification:
"I will pick you up at 7 p.m. Get dressed. We're going to meet a new respected client. And be a good girl."
I understood exactly what "get dressed" meant. More cleavage, tight fabric around the ass, and slits. Seductive and slightly vulgar, but not slutty yet.
My lips felt slightly dry. I didn't realize the cigarette had burned down to the filter.