He hit me every day over the tiniest things. burnt toast, a late reply, a wrong look, You made me do this, he did hiss, One night, panic swallowed me whole and I collapsed, At the hospital, he said to them, She slipped in the shower

Dr. Harris was calm, methodical, the kind of man who didn’t rush. He examined my ribs, my wrists, the fading bruise along my neck that makeup couldn’t quite hide. He paused more than once, his expression unreadable.

“These injuries,” he said slowly, looking directly at Jason, “aren’t consistent with a simple fall.”

The room seemed to stop breathing.

Jason laughed, sharp and brittle. “What are you implying?”

Dr. Harris didn’t argue. He didn’t raise his voice. “I’m saying this pattern suggests repeated trauma.”

I turned my head slightly and caught Jason’s reflection in the metal cabinet across the room.

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