Another week later
I have given up. My life is a routine now of Jake and not Jake. Depending on his mood, he hardly lets me leave the apartment. Bruises lace every part of my skin, the belt has caused deep welts, and I haven’t slept properly for days; even now, certain positions still hurt where the belt’s torn through my skin. Yet he was careful not to mark my face, for the few times he let me out for an hour or so.
Getting up, I cook his breakfast, cringing as I hear him move around and get ready to go open the general store and cafe when I feel his hand wrap around my body. His fingers trace over my belly gently as I flip his egg.
“I will finish cooking. Go get dressed,” he tells me, and I look over my shoulder at him and nod.
I slip into the room to find warm tracksuit pants and
