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

“I didn’t fall,” I said.

Jason’s fingers tightened. “Emily—”

“I didn’t fall,” I said again, louder. “He did this.”

Everything unraveled at once. Dr. Harris stepped back. A nurse moved to my side. Security was called. Jason stood so abruptly his chair scraped loudly across the floor.

“She’s confused,” he shouted. “She has anxiety—”

The nurse looked at my wrists—the bruises shaped like fingerprints. Her face hardened.

When the police arrived, Jason tried everything—joking, explaining, charming. None of it worked. When they asked if I wanted to file a report, my voice shook, but it didn’t vanish.

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