episode 5

The sun leaks through the torn curtain like an accusation. She’s awake before him — staring at the cracks in the ceiling, feeling the soreness between her legs, the sticky cold that dried there overnight. She tries not to shift on the mattress, every small movement sending cramps through her belly.

She hopes — stupidly — that he’ll pretend nothing happened. That he’ll leave for work, slam the door, and she can wash him off her skin in silence. But hope is a cruel trick here.

He stirs beside her, blinking sleep from his eyes. He rolls onto his side, propping himself on an elbow. For a second he just watches her — eyes roaming over the bruises on her hips, the faint dried smears on her inner thighs.

She pulls the sheet higher, pressing it to her chest like it’s armor. He laughs — low, amused, the sound slicing through the tense quiet.

"What’s that face for? You act like I killed you or something."

She doesn’t answer. She stares at a crack in the wall. Her fingernails dig crescent moons into the soft cotton sheet.

"You know I hate when you fight me. I told you — don’t push me. If you just give me what I want, we won’t have problems, right?"

His tone is almost casual — like they’re talking about breakfast. He brushes a hand through her stubble-soft hair, but she flinches away. His smile fades. His fingers curl into a fist in the blanket.

"See? This is what I mean. You push me, and then you look at me like I’m the monster. Maybe I should just be done with you. Hm? Maybe I should just divorce you. Throw you out. What do you think of that?"

Her heart stutters in her chest. Divorce. Freedom. But she knows — it’s not freedom. Not the way he means it.

He leans closer, his breath sour from sleep. “You think you’d survive out there? Looking like this? Who’d want you — some bald little slut? You think your family would take you back? After what you’ve done for me?”

She forces her lips shut — but her chin trembles. He sees it. He grins.

"You know what’s funny? All those pretty pictures you let me take… the videos. You remember those, baby? You were such a good girl for me back then. Pretty little poses. Such a sweet mouth. I’ve got them all — every last one."

The room tilts around her. Shame crawls up her throat like bile.

"You ever think what people would say if they saw you like that? On the internet? Your father. Your brother. Your sweet old auntie." He chuckles, like it’s an inside joke. “You’d be famous, huh? Everyone would know what you really are.”

Tears well in her eyes, blurring the crack in the ceiling. She hates that he sees them. Hates that her silence only feeds him.

He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes gleam with lazy cruelty.

"So listen close. Next time you think about saying no — remember this. You belong to me. You don’t say no. Ever. Or I’ll ruin you. And then where will you go? Hmm?"

She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t shake her head. She just stares at him — eyes wide, brimming but unblinking. He holds her face another moment, searching for the fight he thinks he’s crushed.

Then he lets go. He pats her cheek twice, mocking, gentle.

"Good girl. Now get up. Make me some breakfast."

Four months pass. She does everything right. She doesn’t talk back. She doesn’t say no. She doesn’t flinch when he pulls her close at night. She tells herself if she’s perfect — if she’s small enough, soft enough, invisible enough — maybe the worst parts will stay buried.

Her hair grows back, little by little. A soft dark halo hugging her skull, brushing her ears now when she turns her head. It’s the only thing that feels like hers — this fragile new growth. Some mornings she stands at the bathroom mirror, touching it with trembling fingers, imagining herself whole again.

Tonight, he’s lying beside her — the TV flickering blue shadows across the bedroom walls. She’s curled under the blanket, bare skin pressed to old sheets that still smell like him. She tries not to breathe too loudly.

When he turns off the TV, the silence makes her heartbeat echo in her ears. She feels him watching her — the weight of his eyes boring into the side of her face.

"You’ve been good," he murmurs. His fingers brush the nape of her neck, pushing under the new hair. “Almost too good. Makes me wonder if you’re planning something.”

She freezes. Her breath catches in her throat. “No. I’m not. I promise,” she whispers. Her voice sounds small, childlike.

He chuckles, low and mean. He pushes the blanket down to her shoulders, then lower, exposing the bare slope of her back, the tender place where her hairline ends. He twirls a short lock between his fingers, tugging it just hard enough to make her flinch.

"Hmm. It’s getting long again," he says, like he’s talking about weeds in a garden. “You look almost… pretty.”

She feels a spark of hope at that word — pretty — like a door cracking open to some better version of her life.

But then he lets go, sitting up in bed. His eyes gleam with that cold, restless cruelty she knows so well.

"Get up," he says flatly. “Go get the trimmer.”

Her stomach drops straight through the mattress. She can’t breathe for a second — a tiny, strangled sound rattles in her throat.

"P-please…” she whispers. Her fingers claw at the sheet, dragging it up over her bare chest, as if the thin cotton could protect her from him.

"I said get up." His voice sharpens, slicing through the quiet. “You heard me. Bring it here.”

She shakes her head once — tiny, desperate. “Please, please, please — not again. It’s just hair, please—”

"EXACTLY. It’s just hair." He laughs — a dry, horrible sound. He shifts closer, grabbing her jaw so hard her teeth clack together. “You think you get to grow it out just because you’ve been playing nice? I like it better when you’re bald. You’re uglier that way — reminds you who you belong to.”

The tears come in a hot, helpless flood — she hates them, hates how they make her feel like a child. She tries to swallow them back, but they choke her.

"No… please, I’ll do anything, anything else — I’ll be good—”

"You ARE good," he snarls, pushing his forehead against hers so she can’t look away. “So be good now. Bring me the trimmer.”

When she doesn’t move fast enough, he rips the blanket from her body, leaving her naked on the mattress. The cold air bites her skin — shame blooming like bruises across her chest.

"NOW."

She flinches like she’s been struck. She slides off the bed on trembling legs, feet padding across the floor littered with old clothes and broken promises. Her vision blurs with tears as she crouches by the dresser, digging through the bottom drawer until her fingers brush the cold plastic.

She holds the trimmer like a knife pointed at her own heart — small, buzzing, merciless.

When she turns back to him, he’s lounging against the pillows, that mocking grin carved across his face.

"Good girl," he says, voice dripping honey and poison. “Now come here. Let’s see that pretty head again.”

A sob tears through her chest — raw, guttural. But she obeys. She climbs onto the bed, the trimmer heavy in her shaking hands.

She closes her eyes. In the darkness behind her lids, she tries to imagine her old self — the girl with hair brushing her shoulders, laughter bubbling out of her chest like sunlight. She tries to hold onto that image as the cruel buzz fills her ears.

One day, she thinks, even as the tears spill over her lashes, even as he tilts her chin up to begin. One day, I’ll have hair down to my back. One day, I’ll leave you behind with every ugly lock you ever stole from me. One day, I’ll be free.

But tonight, she can only kneel — naked, trembling, head bowed — as the monster she calls husband hums softly and presses the blades to her scalp.

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