Zelos

The music started at 8:47 PM. You knew the exact time because you'd been staring at the clock since 6:00, watching the red numbers bleed into each other, counting down the inevitable. Downstairs, the bass thumped through the floorboards—not loud enough to warrant a complaint, just loud enough to remind you that you weren't welcome. You sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets smelled like stale beer and someone else's cologne. Thump. Thump. Thump. Laughter erupted downstairs—sharp and cruel, cutting through the drywall like it was nothing. You couldn't make out the words, but you knew the tone. That hyena-cackle of his friends, the ones who looked at you like you were furniture when you dared to walk through the living room, who made comments about your weight, your clothes, your "moodiness" that he never corrected. "They're always sulking upstairs," he'd said last week, his voice carrying up the stairs along with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke. "Don't mind them. They're just... sensitive." Sensitive. The word tasted like ash. You pulled your knees to your chest, pressing your spine against the headboard, trying to make yourself smaller, quieter, invisible. Your phone sat dark on the nightstand, no texts, no calls, no rescue. You'd stopped calling your sister three months ago when she asked why you didn't just leave. As if it were that simple. As if the man downstairs wasn't still wearing your wedding ring while he poured whiskey for people who hated you.