Page 17 of Mine To Hunt

I scramble back, palms scraping, sobs hitching. "Ryan, stop! You're scaring me. Please, just stop!"

My cheek throbs, a welt rising, but he advances, foot lashing out which connects with my stomach, a dull thud that folds me in half.

Air vanishes, nausea surging, pain like fire curling tight. I curl fetal, gasping, tears soaking the floor. "Why? You've never... never like this. What happened to you?"

"Shut up!" He grabs my shoulder, flipping me half-over, fist slamming down. Once on my arm, bruising deep, then my side, ribs, that steals my scream. "This is what you get for pushing! For ruining my night!"

Begging spills out, broken and desperate. "Please. Ryan, stop! It hurts. God, stop! I'll go, I'll leave. Just don't!"

Each word costs, breath ragged, body screaming. He's lost it, eyes blank with fury, like he doesn't see me anymore. Just a target.

Why now? The bar? The confrontation? Or was it always there, waiting?

Fists rain. Another to my thigh, heavy and thudding. The world narrowing to pain, his curses blurring. "Worthless... nag... should've known..."

Black edges in, vision spotting. One last hit. Glancing my jaw. And it tips me over. Everything fades, a merciful dark swallowing the agony.

~

I wake slow, the world a haze of hurt. Floor hard under me, cheek pressed to cool wood that smells of dust and spilled coffee. One side's numb. Left arm, leg, pins and needles prickling as blood rushes back.

Groggy, I push up on shaking arms, pain igniting everywhere, cheek pulsing like a heartbeat, stomach a knot of fire, ribs tender with every breath. Hair hangs in my face, tangled and sticky with sweat.

How long? Minutes? Hours? The room's dim, lamp casting long shadows. Ryan is there, by the bedroom door, buttoning his shirt, pants zipped casual like he's heading out for work.

He glances over, face flat, no remorse. No words. He snatches the keys from the table. The door clicks open, then shut and he’s gone. Silence crashes in, heavy as the bruises.

Tears come fresh, silent now, carving hot paths down my swollen face. I drag myself up, using the couch arm, legs buckling once before holding. Pain lances through my side. Cracked rib? Maybe. Doesn't matter.

I need to go to the bathroom. Clean this off, assess the damage. The light flicks on harsh, mirror throwing back a stranger, eye swelling shut, purple blooming under the skin, lip split, blood crusted at the corner, hair a wild mess, clumps yanked loose.

I lean in, fingers tracing the marks, tender, angry. How? How did my life end up like this?

Uni was supposed to be an escape. Writing, friends, rebuilding after the crash. Ryan swooped in with a steady hand and promises of normal.

But normal soon twisted, shouts over nothing, grips too tight, now this. Fists. Blood. Me, broken on the floor. Mom's voice echoes faintly,‘You're stronger than you know, Iris.’

Was I? Or did I just trade one loss for another?

Water runs hot in the sink, but I strip slow, wincing at every pull. Steam filling the space, water stinging the cuts but soothing the ache. I scrub gentle, soap burning the split lip, tears mixing with the spray.

Why didn't I see? The late nights, the distance. Boring. Too good. Bullshit excuses for a coward. Scalp throbs where he yanked, stomach bruises tender under my fingers. I rinse, shut off the water, towel wrapping loose.

Enough. I cannot stay here anymore. I think of Maddie immediately, of her place, of safety, of walls that are not watching me.

My phone lies on the counter. I open the group chat and type out the truth as simply as I can. I tell them I'm coming and I need them right now.

Before I can finish sending it, my phone buzzes again.

The number is unfamiliar. My heart stutters as if it recognizes danger before my mind does. I open the message despite myself. The words are short and casual, and that somehow makes them worse.

‘You look beautiful.’

The timing makes my stomach twist, because I am still damp from the shower, still wrapped in a towel, still raw and exposed in every sense. Fear tightens around my chest as another notification appears, this one with a video attached.

My thumb hovers over the screen while dread pools heavy and cold inside me. When I finally press play, the world seems to tilt.

It is me on the screen. My pale skin under the spray of the shower, damp copper hair clinging to my shoulders, my head tilted back, my eyes closed, unaware. The angle is wrong, too high, too deliberate.