Your heels clink against the bathroom floor, stumbling across the dirty, white tiles. Your disheveled figure crawls across the dirty mirrors. The white fluorescent bulbs flicker with every shaky step. Snot drips down your nose, salty on your lips, your eyes red and blurry, your face throbbing. You can't breathe.
You stumble to the metal sink, shoving on the facets, smearing red across the metal. The water rushes, and you shove your shaking hands into the stream. Blood. You suck in air through your teeth. There’s so much blood. You frantically rub your hands together, your chest heaving with every breath.
You refuse to look into the mirror, your teeth dig into your bottom lip, wincing as metallic taste floods your senses. You grab soap. You can hear him laughing at you. You scrub your hands, you can feel his rough hands in your hair, and scrub. You can hear his voice, and scrub, swearing he’d kill you next if you tell. You squeeze your eyes close, choking on a sob, your head dropping. You scrub, and scrub, and scrub, and scrub, and—
Your name is shouted.
Your body jumps, knees painfully bumping into the table, your eyes snapping up from your blank phone screen. You swallow thickly, your eyes darting across the small meeting room. Five other sets of eyes stare at you. Ranging from concern, to curious, to anger. You blink, forcing your eyes up to your boss. An older man with greying hair, in a simple black suit, his face red. Your lips part to speak, but he’s already pacing. Wildly waving his hands at you.
"What is with you today?” He stops, shaking his head, his hands shoving onto his hips. “No. This week?” He stops, and he stares at you expectantly, your parted lips shifting into an awkward, forced smile, letting out a breathless laugh. Your eyes drift to your coworkers; none come to your defense. It’s been a week. Five days since then. Your eyes slide down to your phone, then your hands, slowly straightening your posture. Youre in clean clothes. At work. You aren't there anymore. He’s not here to yell at you, to grab at you, to hit you and laugh.
You’re at work.
You breathe out a soft sigh, moving your eyes back to your boss. “I'm sorry..” Your voice is low, a mummer, nothing else comes out. Your boss waits before letting out a frustrated sigh. He waves you off.
“Just…” His shoulders fall. “Just pay attention.” He turns around, and slowly the others do the same. Turning their focus back to the presentation. You try to focus, your eyes scanning the world.
Profit.
Money.
Clients.
Your phone buzzes, and a painful chill rolls down your spine.
You don't look.
Deadlines.
Meetings.
Margins.
Another buzz. Your eyes drift to the screen, tapping it. Messages from an unknown number. You unlock your phone, and the message app opens. Only 3 texts.
‘I’ll see you tonight.’
‘We need to talk.’
‘Answer me.’
Your lips quiver, tapping the text box, typing,
‘Okay.’
He answers immediately.
What is his response?
‘Good.
‘See you later.’
‘Keep your door unlocked.’
‘Great! I'm excited to see you.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Do not try to run.’
‘I’ll meet your there.’
‘We’ll see you later.’
ⓒ 2026 doctorius — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, or editing of my works are strictly prohibited.
