She stands by the window now, her arms folded tight across her chest like she’s holding herself in. Outside, the street is alive — rickshaws rumble by, a child drags a schoolbag too big for his shoulders. She tries to focus on that life. The normal. The safe.

"Don’t stand so far away, baby," his voice breaks the silence. It’s warm, almost teasing — like he’s scolding a lover who forgot to kiss him goodbye.

She flinches when he steps behind her. His hands circle her waist — the same hands that held her down hours ago. He presses his lips to her hair. She stands frozen.

"Look at you," he murmurs. “Mine. Always so stubborn, but you come back to me every time.”

She tastes bile but forces a nod. He likes that. He likes when she doesn’t fight back — it makes him feel like he’s won.

"Where would you even go, huh?" His grip tightens. She feels his fingers dig into the bruise already forming beneath her sweater. “No one knows you like I do. No one can touch you the way I can.”

She squeezes her eyes shut — for a second she’s back there again, pinned, helpless. Her pulse roars in her ears. She wonders if he can feel her heart trying to escape.

"Say it," he growls now, the sweetness gone — replaced by the sharp edge she’s come to fear more than his fists.

She swallows. Her throat is dry sand.

"Yours."

"Louder."

"I’m yours."

The words taste like rust and betrayal on her tongue — betrayal of herself.

He smiles, satisfied. A predator with his prey properly collared.

"Good girl," he purrs, planting a kiss on her neck. She wants to scrub it off. “Now, make us some tea, hmm? You’ll stay in today — I don’t want you running around. Not after last night.”

She nods again. Her mind screams run. Her feet don’t move.

"Smile for me," he says when she doesn’t. He catches her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up. His thumb brushes her lip — rough, possessive, familiar. “I love you. You know that, don’t you? Everything I do is because I can’t stand losing you.”

She smiles — a hollow, dead thing. In her mind, she’s already counting: the door lock, the spare key, the window ledge she might climb over if she’s ever brave enough.

"Good girl," he says again. He doesn’t see the storm gathering behind her eyes — not yet.

She stands in the kitchen, staring at the steam curling from the chipped kettle. Her fingers tremble as she sets two cups on the tray. Her mind is miles away — rehearsing again how she might slip the hidden key into her pocket, how she might run when he’s drunk enough to pass out.

"What’s taking so long?"

His voice slams into her chest like a fist. She flinches, dropping a spoon with a sharp clang. Before she can answer, he’s there — filling the doorway like a storm cloud.

"I asked you a question, didn’t I?"

She forces herself to speak. “It’s ready, I —”

The slap comes out of nowhere — the crack of his palm against her cheek echoes in the tiny kitchen. The sting burns hot and then goes numb.

"Always so slow," he spits. He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him. Tears well in her eyes — not from the pain but from the raw humiliation. She hates that he sees them. He loves that he does.

"You think you can leave me, huh? I see the way you look at that door."

His grip shifts from her face to the back of her neck. He drags her through the flat, ignoring the teacups that shatter as the tray clatters to the floor.

He throws her onto the bed like she weighs nothing. The mattress springs squeal in protest. She scrambles back but he’s already crawling over her, all heat and fury, the smell of stale sweat and cheap aftershave filling her nose.

"You’re mine," he snarls, pressing his knee between her thighs. She twists away but he slams a fist into the pillow next to her head — a threat that doesn’t need words.

"Don’t," she whispers. It slips out before she can choke it down. His eyes flare with a cruel light. “Don’t?” He mimics her voice, high and mocking. “Don’t? You forget who you belong to, sweetheart.”

She tries to shove him off. His hand finds her hair, yanking her head back so hard her scalp screams. She doesn’t scream. She knows better. The slap comes again — across the other cheek this time. Her ears ring.

"Don’t fight me. You know you like it when you’re good."

He rips at the thin fabric of her clothes — not caring what tears. She turns her face to the wall. She counts the cracks in the plaster. Anything but here. Anything but now.

She feels every rough push. Every hateful word. The bed creaks beneath them, a witness to her ruin. His weight pins her down — a prison she can’t escape.

When it’s over, he collapses next to her, breath ragged. He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t kiss her. He just rolls over, pulling her tight against him like a ragdoll.

"Mine," he murmurs, half-asleep already. “Always mine.”

She lies there, her bruised face pressed into the damp pillow, her body sore and shivering. She stares at the crack in the ceiling — the same one she counted last night. And the night before that.

She closes her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny voice whispers: Not forever. Not if I can find a way.

The room smells like sweat, fear, and something broken. She lies curled on her side, her body still trembling where he’s bruised it — where he’s claimed it like property.

He shifts beside her, groaning as he swings his legs off the bed. She watches his back through a blur of tears — the careless way he stretches, scratches his ribs, hums to himself like they just shared something tender instead of monstrous.

He pulls on his shirt, then his pants. She pulls the corner of the sheet around herself, but her hands shake too badly to hold it tight. It slips down her shoulder, exposing the purple blooming across her collarbone.

Then — knock knock.

She flinches so hard her teeth clack together.

"Who’s that?" she whispers, her voice no louder than a breath.

He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just the guys. Relax.”

She wants to scream. Relax? She grips the sheet tighter, tries to shrink into the mattress. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears.

He swings the door open. There they are — two men, older than him, reeking of cheap liquor and stale cigarette smoke. They clap him on the shoulder, laughing too loud.

"Ay, man — we didn’t know you were busy," one snickers when he sees her. He doesn’t look away. His eyes roam over her bare shoulder, the way she’s clutching the sheet to her chest like it’s a shield made of paper.

"Get out," she croaks. The words slip out before she can stop them.

The bigger man laughs, leaning on the doorframe. “What’s the matter, princess? Shy all of a sudden? We’re all friends here.”

She curls tighter, pulling her knees up, burying her face in the scratchy pillow. She tries to become invisible — bone, bruises, and shame pressed into cheap linen.

The rapist — her husband, her prison — turns back to her with that same cold smirk. He doesn’t tell them to leave. He doesn’t cover her. He just shrugs.

"She’s mine," he says, like he’s bragging about a car or a new watch. “Don’t mind her. She likes to act shy — but she knows who she belongs to.”

The men laugh. The sound drills into her skull — hot and filthy. One takes a step inside. She feels the heat of his eyes crawling over the parts of her she can’t hide.

Her ears buzz. Her vision goes black around the edges. Somewhere deep inside, something snaps — not loudly, not yet, but a hairline crack she knows will split open one day.

"Please… don’t look at me," she whispers, but they don’t stop. One of them whistles low.

"Pretty thing, isn’t she?" the taller one says. He reaches out — just enough for her to flinch away like a trapped animal.

They laugh again. The husband grins, pride swelling in his chest at the proof of his power. He’s not just hurting her — he’s showing her off like a trophy. A possession that breathes.

She squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t run — not now. But inside, that tiny crack grows wider. She pictures a knife. A door left unlocked. The taste of freedom she’s never had but dreams of.

Not forever, the voice whispers. Not if I can help it.

She can’t breathe. The scratchy sheet is the only barrier between her bare skin and their hungry eyes — thin as a whisper, but it’s all she has.

She keeps her fists clenched around the edge, knuckles white, praying they’ll get bored. Praying they’ll leave.

But they don’t.

"Come on, let’s get a good look at that pretty thing," one of the men jeers, stepping closer. She shakes her head — once, twice — but her words die in her dry throat.

"Please… don’t," she tries to say, but it’s just air. Her husband — her captor — leans back against the wall, watching with lazy amusement. His eyes flick from her to his friends. He doesn’t stop them. Of course he doesn’t.

She feels the tug before her brain catches up — rough fingers grabbing the sheet, pulling it away like it’s nothing.

The air hits her raw skin. She gasps — not from the cold, but from the horror.

They laugh — three low, ugly laughs that slide across her skin like knives. She curls in on herself, arms crossed over her chest, legs squeezed tight together — but it doesn’t matter. She can feel their eyes licking every bruise, every mark he left.

"Damn, look at her," the bigger one says. He whistles low, the sound oily. “No wonder you keep her locked up. She’s a sweet little thing.”

"Turn around, baby, let ‘em see how pretty you are," her husband mocks. He reaches out, flicks a bruise on her hip with two fingers. The jolt makes her flinch — a small, broken animal trying to hide.

"Stop it. Please. Please," she chokes out. Tears slip from the corners of her eyes, hot and shameful.

One of the men crouches beside the bed, so close she can smell stale beer and cheap cologne. He tilts his head, eyes glinting like a dog about to bite. “You’re shy, huh? I like that. I bet she screams real pretty for you, doesn’t she?”

Her husband grins, pride swelling in his chest. “She’s mine. Don’t get any ideas. She’s too soft for the likes of you.”

"Aw, come on, man — let us try," the other says with a nasty grin. They laugh again, but it’s not funny — not to her. It’s the sound of her dignity slipping through their fingers.

She presses her palms flat to the mattress, fighting the urge to scramble away — there’s nowhere to go. Her skin crawls where their eyes touch it. Her heart beats so loud she wonders if they can hear it.

For a second, she wants to die. To sink into the floorboards and never feel his touch again.

But under that drowning terror, something flickers — a spark. She sees them, drunk on their power. She sees him, so smug, so sure she’ll always be this helpless thing in his bed.

And something inside her whispers: Not forever. One day, you’ll wish you’d killed me when you had the chance.

The door slams shut behind his friends. Their footsteps fade down the hall, their drunken laughter echoing like nails down her spine. Silence fills the room — thick, heavy. Almost worse than their eyes.

She clutches the sheet to her chest again, hands shaking so badly her knuckles burn. She curls up on her side, ribs screaming where they press against each other. She tries to breathe, but the air feels thick as mud.

He’s pacing now — back and forth at the foot of the bed, his boots thudding on the cheap floorboards. She doesn’t dare look at him. She knows that sound — the coiled rage that comes after the mocking sweetness. The real monster under his skin.

"Look at me," he snarls. She squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

"LOOK AT ME!"

His hand closes around her ankle, yanking her down the bed so fast the sheet slips from her grip. She scrambles for it — but he’s faster, ripping it away, tossing it on the floor. Naked again, exposed. Her heartbeat trips over itself.

"You think you’re clever, huh? Spreading your legs for my friends? Smiling at them like a cheap little slut?"

"I didn’t— I swear I didn’t—" She tries to sit up, but he shoves her back down, hand heavy on her chest. She feels her ribs strain. Tears leak out, hot, useless.

"You were showing off," he spits. “All that shy act? You loved it. You liked them looking at you. Don’t lie to me!”

She shakes her head, throat raw. “No — no — I didn’t — please—”

He lets go so suddenly she almost sobs with relief — but it dies in her throat when she sees him cross to the dresser. He jerks open the drawer, rummaging, cursing under his breath. Then she sees it — the dull silver glint in his hand. Scissors.

Her scalp prickles with terror before her mind even makes sense of it. He turns back to her, eyes bright with madness.

"You want them to see you? Let’s see what they think when you’re nothing but a bald, ugly whore."

"No— please — please don’t—" She scrambles back up the bed, pressing her naked back to the wall. Her hands fly to her hair — tangled, sweat-damp, the last piece of herself she feels she still owns.

He climbs onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, pinning her between the wall and his fury. He grabs a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head forward. Pain blooms at her scalp — tiny, stinging explosions.

"Hold still, bitch."

The cold metal grazes her neck. She lets out a sob — small, broken, shameful. He laughs — a horrible, giddy sound.

The blades close around a thick lock behind her ear. Snip. The tearing sound is louder than her heartbeat. The chunk slides down her shoulder, hits her thigh. She tries to slap his hand away — but he snarls, backhands her across the mouth. The copper taste blooms on her tongue.

"Stay still!"

She freezes. He takes another lock, right by her temple. Snip. More strands slide down her chest, sticking to her damp skin. He yanks harder, slicing uneven chunks — some short, some long — the blades scraping her scalp. Little hairs cling to her cheeks, her shoulders, the sheets.

Her sobs turn into hiccuping gasps — no words left, just raw animal sounds. She hates the sound. She hates the weakness. But she can’t stop.

"This is what happens when you whore around," he growls, breath hot at her ear. “No man wants a bald slut. You’re nothing now. Nothing.”

Snip.

Snip.

Chunks of her hair scatter like feathers, covering the bed, the floor. He pulls so hard her neck burns. Tears run down her face, streaking through the tiny, itchy hairs clinging to her skin.

She wants to scream — to bite him, claw him, anything. But she’s so tired. So hollow. So done fighting a war she can’t win — not tonight.

When he’s done, he grabs her chin, forcing her to look at the broken hand mirror on the nightstand. The jagged glass shows her own face — her once long hair now ragged tufts, scalp raw in places, skin blotched with red where he cut too close.

She doesn’t even recognize the woman staring back. A stranger — humiliated, butchered, small.

"See? Look how pretty you are now," he sneers. He throws the scissors onto the floor with a clatter. “Try running now. Try making anyone else want you now.”

He pushes her down, stands up, wipes his hands like she’s dirt he can scrub away.

She curls up on the mattress, the torn pieces of her hair scattered around her like dead petals. Her shoulders quake with silent sobs that never quite break free.

But somewhere, deep inside — deeper than the bruises, the cuts, the raw skin — something flickers: I am not nothing. I am not yours forever. I will find a way out.

The last uneven locks fall to the mattress like dead leaves. Her scalp feels raw where the scissors scraped too close, strands clinging to her cheeks, her damp shoulders, the sheets. Her eyes are swollen from crying — from trying not to make a sound but failing anyway.

He leans back, breathless from the violence, his grin sharp and ugly.

"Not so pretty now, huh?" he spits, flicking a stray hair off his shirt like it disgusts him.

She tries to pull the blanket over her bare shoulders, but he yanks it away again, tossing it to the floor. She’s naked, half-sheared, shame burning hotter than the sting on her scalp.

Then she sees the thought flicker across his eyes — something darker. He stands abruptly, starts rummaging through the dresser drawers. Shirts tumble out, socks, old receipts. He kicks the bottom drawer shut with a curse.

"Where the fuck is it—"

She watches him in mute terror, a single shiver running through her chest like a lightning bolt.

He crosses to the bathroom, flinging the door open so hard it bounces back. She hears him clattering through bottles, the cabinet door banging against the tiles. His curses echo off the bathroom walls — low, vicious, muttering about how she “thinks she’s better than him, thinks she’s pretty, a whore with hair like some fucking queen…”

He comes stomping out, something small and black clutched in his fist — the cheap old trimmer he uses on his beard when he’s too lazy to shave. He flicks the switch — the harsh, mechanical buzz fills the room.

"No—" she gasps, her voice shredded from crying. She backs up until her spine hits the cold wall behind the bed. Her hands fly to her butchered hair — the last tufts left clinging to her scalp like a dying crown.

"Don’t— please— it’s enough— please—"

But her begging only fuels him. He lunges forward, grabs her wrist so hard her bones ache. He drags her forward, throws her facedown on the mattress. She kicks weakly — but he pins her easily, one knee crushing the back of her thighs.

"Stay fucking still."

She feels the vibration before the blades bite — the cold plastic guard pressing into her skin. Tiny teeth rake across her scalp. The low hum buzzes in her ears, rattles through her skull like an electric shock.

He goes slowly — on purpose — so each pass scrapes her skin raw, so she feels the final indignity: every last strand ripped away. Hairs sprinkle across her shoulders, her neck, the pillowcase — hundreds of tiny black needles. She tries to hold still but she can’t stop trembling.

When she squirms, he grips the back of her neck, forcing her cheek into the damp mattress. She tastes salt and fear and the metal tang of her own tears.

"Look at you — just look at you," he sneers, voice vibrating with delight and disgust all at once. “Thought you were too pretty for me? Too pretty for my friends? Who’s gonna want you now?”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t. Her sobs come in hiccups, muffled by the pillow. She watches one last lock drop beside her face — black against white linen, a final piece of the woman she used to be.

The trimmer sputters as it chews through the last stubborn patch. Her skin tingles where the buzzing teeth nick her — tiny pinpricks that sting in the open air. He flicks it off with a snap. The sudden silence is deafening.

He sits back, admiring his work. Her scalp is bare now — raw, pink in places where he’s scraped too close. The bedsheets are littered with dark hair, like feathers torn from a bird.

"Turn around."

She does — slowly, stiffly — her face streaked with tears and stuck hair. She doesn’t try to cover herself anymore. There’s no point.

He laughs. A deep, mean laugh that echoes off the cracked walls.

"Perfect," he says, brushing his fingers over her raw scalp. She flinches. “Now everyone will know you’re nothing but mine. Nothing but a bald, ugly whore.”

He pats her cheek — gentle, almost mockingly tender. Then he shoves her back down onto the stained pillow.

She stares at the hair scattered around her — the last thing that made her feel human. She lets the tears come. But underneath the shaking, the burning, the shame — that tiny spark survives:

Not forever. Not yours forever.

When it’s over, she lies curled on the mattress — naked, hairless, shivering under the bare bulb that flickers overhead. Her breathing comes in ragged little gasps, each inhale scraping her throat raw. Her fingers keep twitching, reaching for hair that isn’t there.

He stands over her, tossing the trimmer back in the drawer. The silence feels alive, thick enough to choke on. She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping he’ll just leave. Hoping she’ll disappear.

But his shadow moves closer. “Get up,” he says, voice flat. “You’re a mess. Go wash up.”

She doesn’t move. She’s not sure she can. Her limbs feel like they belong to someone else.

"Did you hear me?" His tone sharpens — that edge she fears more than fists. She scrambles up, wobbling on unsteady legs, one hand pressed to the wall for balance. He gestures toward the bathroom with a flick of his wrist, like she’s a dog.

She stumbles across the tiny room, feet crunching over loose strands of her own hair. The bathroom door creaks as she nudges it open, bare shoulders hunched.

Inside, the cold white light hums overhead. She closes the door behind her. The mirror above the cracked sink glares back at her — wide, unblinking.

At first, she tries not to look. She turns on the tap, cups her hands under the icy water, splashes her swollen face. But the pull is too strong. She lifts her eyes. And what she sees knocks the air from her lungs.

A stranger stares back. Raw, patchy scalp. Red scratches. Eyes hollow, rimmed with burst blood vessels from crying too hard. Her collarbones jut like broken wings. Her lips tremble, cracked from biting them to stay silent.

This isn’t me, she thinks. This can’t be me.

The buzzing starts in her head — that rushing sound like bees in a jar. Her chest tightens. Her breath snags in her throat, sharp and shallow. The walls close in — too bright, too small. The reflection feels like it’s leaning closer, mocking her.

"No… no… no…" she whimpers, backing away until her shoulders hit the tiled wall. Her fingers claw at her scalp — feeling the bald patches, the tender scrapes, the prickly stubble. The harder she tries to stop, the louder the buzzing gets.

Then the scream tears out of her — raw, guttural, ripped straight from her chest. Her knees buckle. She slides down the wall, hugging her naked knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. She doesn’t even hear the bathroom door fly open.

"Hey — hey! Shut up! What the fuck—" He storms in, his shadow blocking out the light. She’s too far gone to care. She gasps and sobs, eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into her scalp as if she could tear it all away.

He crouches down, grabs her wrists, pulls her hands from her head. “Stop it. Stop it — you’ll hurt yourself.”

Her breaths come in shallow, ragged hiccups. She doesn’t look at him — she can’t. All she sees is that broken girl in the mirror.

He freezes for a second. He really sees her — what he’s done. Her scalp raw, her shoulders trembling, her eyes swollen and wild with panic. And in that tiny moment, his rage flickers into something else: pity. Guilt. Or at least the mask of it.

"Shh… okay, okay. Don’t cry now, baby. Shh…” His voice softens, thick with fake warmth. He pulls her into his chest, her naked skin pressed against his clothes. She doesn’t fight. She just shakes and shakes — silent now, except for the tiny broken hiccups.

"I didn’t mean to scare you so bad. You made me angry. You shouldn’t do that. Look at you… you’re still mine, even without all that pretty hair, huh?" He strokes the back of her raw scalp. She flinches at every touch.

He shifts, scoops her up like she’s made of glass. Sets her on the cold edge of the bathtub. The faucet squeals as he turns it on — warm water now, steam rising.

"We’ll clean you up," he murmurs, guiding her under the flow. His fingers are gentle now — too gentle. He lathers soap through the stubble, washing away the tiny clinging hairs, the dried blood, the grime of fear. He cups water over her shoulders, careful not to get it in her eyes.

She sits there like a broken doll — limp, trembling, eyes unfocused on the cracked tile behind his shoulder. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t sob anymore. The panic has settled into something worse: a dead calm that chills her bones.

"You’re so good for me now," he whispers, rinsing her arms. “So quiet. So clean. You’ll never leave me. You know that, right?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t nod. She just watches a trickle of water run from her shoulder, pink from the tiny cuts on her scalp, swirling down the drain.

But in some hidden corner of her mind — a place he can’t reach — that spark still smolders:

One day. Not forever. One day.