# Shay

Shay  
  
The engine of my old car sputters as I pull into the parking lot of our run-down apartment complex. The glow of the streetlamp flickers above, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. I grip the plastic bag in the passenger seat—Shawn’s cigarettes. He’d called me earlier, slurring his words, demanding I stop on my way home. I didn’t argue. It’s easier that way.  
  
I step out and sling my purse over my shoulder, fumbling in the dark to dig out my keys. The metal staircase groans beneath my weight as I make my way up to our second-floor unit. I pause for a moment outside the door, inhaling deeply, bracing myself. I never know what to expect. Then, I finally push it open.  
  
The stench of stale beer and sweat hits me first. Shawn is sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling off the side, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths. An empty bottle teeters on the coffee table next to an overflowing ashtray. His once clean-cut jawline is now hidden beneath an overgrown beard, and his muscular frame has softened, the start of a beer gut pressing against his old military-issued t-shirt.  
  
I set the cigarettes on the counter without a word. He doesn’t stir. Good.  
  
I slip into our bedroom, pulling the door shut behind me. The bare lightbulb dangles from the ceiling. I tug the wobbly chain, and the harsh yellow light flickers to life. The cover is missing—shattered in Shawn’s last fit of rage. My stomach twists at the memory, the way his voice had turned venomous, his hands gripping too tight.  
  
I peel off my work clothes, wincing as my sleeve brushes against my arm. The bruise is already darkening—a sick shade of purple blooming beneath my skin. I swallow down the lump in my throat and grab a long, thin black sweater from the closet. The sleeves are just enough to hide the evidence. Paired with my flare-leg jeans, it’s enough to make me feel normal, at least for tonight.  
  
I slip on my clothes while my mind drifts somewhere else. Somewhere I try not to go too often.  
  
Back to when things were good.   
  
Shawn was my high school sweetheart. The boy with the easy smile and the confident stride. The one who made me feel safe, like we had the whole world ahead of us. We got engaged right after graduation, young and in love, convinced that nothing could break us. That summer, he enlisted, and I stood by him, proud and terrified all at once.  
  
His first deployment changed everything, though.  
  
He was on his very first mission. He had called me the night before to tell me. I was so scared, but he said everything would be okay. That day, they were fighting some rogue enemies. One threw a grenade and it went off near him. He survived, but his leg was shattered, and his body was riddled with shrapnel. Months of surgeries, painkillers, and physical therapy followed. But the worst damage wasn’t the kind that could be seen on an X-ray.  
  
When he finally came home, he wasn’t him anymore. The light in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by something sharp and distant. The man who used to pull me into his arms and swear we’d take on the world together barely looked at me now. He drank to numb the pain, to silence whatever demons followed him home. And when the alcohol wasn’t enough, the anger took over.   
  
I shake my head, trying to push the memories away.  
  
I smooth back my bleach blonde hair into a high pony, swipe some concealer under my tired blue eyes, blend out the exhaustion, and fix my smudged eyeliner. The mirror reflects a girl I barely recognize—someone who has learned to move in silence, to avoid waking the beast that now sleeps on our couch.  
  
I slip out the door, quiet as a whisper, before Shawn even realizes I was here.  
  
I pull into the nearly empty lot of the bar, the neon sign buzzing faintly above the entrance. At least it looks like it’ll be a slow night. I kill the engine and lean back for a moment, rubbing my temples. My body already aches from the long shift at the diner, my feet sore from hours of running plates and refilling coffee cups. But there’s no time to rest. No with the bills piling up daily on the side table. The words "LATE" boldly printing in bright red seeming to mock her.  
  
Pushing open the car door, I step into the cool night air and head inside, the familiar scent of whiskey and stale smoke wrapping around me. Tony, the owner, stands behind the bar, a rag in one hand and a glass in the other, his usual routine. He glances up as I tie my apron around my waist.  
  
“I thought you were coming in at five?” he asks, his thick brows pulling together.  
  
I wince. “I know, I’m sorry. The diner needed me for another thirty minutes.”  
  
Tony exhales through his nose, but there’s no real anger in his expression. Just something softer—understanding. “It’s fine, kid. Don’t worry about it.” He tosses the rag onto the counter and grabs his keys. “You got it from here?”  
  
“Yeah,” I nod. “Have a good night.”  
  
He pats the counter twice before heading out, the front door creaking shut behind him.  
  
I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.  
  
The silence of the bar stretches around me. No rowdy crowds yet, no booming laughter or clinking glasses. Just the low hum of a country song playing from the old jukebox in the corner. I take a moment to just be, leaning against the counter, letting the exhaustion settle before the night picks up.   
  
Then, with a deep breath, I push off the bar and get to work.  
  


# Tortured Twilight

Shay:  
  
My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning nearly white, but even that small sensation barely registered in my numb mind. The hours of the double shifts were weighing on me, pulling me down like invisible chains. Every inch of my body screamed for rest, for a moment to just collapse and breathe without the burden of everything hanging over me.  
  
My eyelids tried to flutter closed, the road ahead a blur as I tried to refocus on the never ending road ahead in me. The low hum of the engine, the rhythmic whoosh of the tires against the pavement, and the soft, steady beat of my pulse were the only things keeping me tethered to the present. But even those felt like they were slipping away, as though I were floating outside my own body.   
  
Somehow, I kept driving, the distance between me and home shrinking, though I had no idea how I’d made it this far. The exhaustion was a thick fog clouding my thoughts, and I couldn’t remember the last time I felt awake, truly awake.  
  
But then, suddenly, the familiar street signs appear, and the dull ache in my chest lightens just a little. Home.   
  
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The car slowed as I pulled into the drive on my dreary apartment complex, the tires squealing softly in protest against the long drive. I managed to park, though every movement felt like it took all the energy I had left.   
  
I stared at the second story when my front door stood for a moment, my gaze unfocused. The apartment was there, waiting, offering nothing but a place to fall into, but even that felt like too much right now. I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to muster the last bit on strength I had left.  
  
Somehow, I gathered myself together to climb the stairs, unlock the door, step inside, and close it behind me. The silence of the apartment wrapped around me like a blanket, soft but heavy, and I could barely feel my legs move as I made my way to couch. I collapsed, my body sinking into the cushions, my mind already slipping into darkness.  
  
"Made it home," I whispered to herself, though I didn’t know if I meant it as a relief or a warning.  
  
My pulse thundered in my ears as I eased my shoes off my aching feet, crazing any sort of relief. The flickering oven clock in the distance told me it was already 1:25 AM. I stood up and made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water before bed. I walked to the sink and set my purse on the counter. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and turned the sink on. I was mindlessly watching the running water fill my cup when I felt it—cold, hard pressure at my throat. Before I could react, I was slammed against the wall, my glass shattering against the hardwood floor. My back hit it with a sickening thud, my last bit of breath being cast from my lungs. His grip was brutal. His fingers dug into my neck, cutting off my air in short, desperate gasps.  
  
“Where the hell have you been?” Shawn’s voice was slurred, rough with alcohol. He reeked of it, of whiskey and something else, something darker. His breath burning against me, hot and foul against her skin.   
  
“Work,” I choked out, my voice strained, tears rimming my tired, red eyes, treating to slip any moment. I knew it wouldn’t be enough to calm him. Nothing ever was.   
  
“No," he spat, the word a bitter accusation. “You’ve been with him, haven’t you? Your precious boyfriend. You’ve been gone all day, don’t lie to me.”  
  
I shook my head frantically, my heart hammering. “No, Shawn... I came straight home after work. You were asleep. I swear."  
  
The grip on my throat tightened, the world narrowing as my feet barely touched the floor. My head spun from the pressure. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Every attempt at speaking felt like it might be my last.   
  
“Stop it!” I gasped, her voice barely a whisper. "Please, Shawn, please...." the words coming out in desperation.   
  
He didn’t listen. His palm came down with a sickening crack against my cheek, and my vision blurred as a sharp pain exploded through my face. Blood poured from my lip, warm and sticky, dripping down my chin. I touched my face, my fingers trembling against the sting.   
  
He dropped me like a ragdoll, and I crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. The shattered glass cutting into my knees, but I couldn't think about that right now.   
  
Shawn turned without a word, leaving me there in the cold, silent apartment. The door slammed behind him, leaving nothing but the echo of it in his wake.  
  
I stayed on the floor for a moment longer, too numb to move, too shocked to fully process what had just happened. Blood dripped from my lip, but it didn’t feel like my body. Nothing did. All I could think about was the door, the silence that swallowed me whole, and how everything was always the same.  
  
The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing against my chest like a weight I couldn’t lift. My body ached, my lip throbbed, and the ghost of his hand still lingered around my throat.   
  
I forced myself to move, one step at a time, my limbs heavy as if they belonged to someone else. I made my way to the bathroom, barely recognizing my own reflection in the mirror. My cheek was red, already beginning to bruise, and a thin trail of blood ran from my lip. My eyes looked hollow—empty. Like I wasn’t even in my own body anymore.   
  
Shawn was gone. For now. That was all that mattered.    
  
I turned the shower on and let the steam fill the room before peeling off my clothes. Each movement felt slow, deliberate, like I was afraid my body might shatter from the effort. When I stepped under the stream, the hot water hit my skin, and I sucked in a sharp breath. It stung, burning against the fresh wounds, but I didn’t move away.   
  
I watched as my blood spiraled down the drain, mixing with the water, disappearing as if it had never been there. I wished it were that easy—to let everything wash away, to be clean, new, whole. But no amount of scrubbing could fix what was broken inside me.   
  
I leaned against the cool tile, pressing my forehead against it, my breath shaky. I felt like a shell of myself. Hollow. Helpless.   
  
Tears burned at the edges of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn’t change anything. It never did.  
  


# Another Day

I jolted awake, my chest rising and falling in quick, panicked breaths. The nightmare was always the same—Shawn, the man I once loved, smiling at me like he used to, his touch soft, his voice warm. And then, in an instant, he twisted into something else, something dark, something cruel. His hands weren’t gentle anymore. His voice wasn’t sweet. It was a monster’s voice, full of rage, full of force and demanding control of me.    
  
I shook off the lingering terror and glanced at the clock. 11 AM. My body ached, a cruel reminder of the night before. Every movement sent a dull throb through my limbs, but I couldn’t stay here. Lying in bed, letting the weight of everything keep me trapped—I refused.    
  
I had work. Again.    
  
Tony had given me extra hours, and I wasn’t about to waste them. A twelve-hour shift on a Friday meant good tips, which meant I could finally catch up on rent. That was all that mattered right now—surviving.    
  
I dragged myself to the mirror, wincing as I caught sight of the bruise blooming on my cheek. It was deep, ugly, impossible to ignore. My busted lip was worse, the cut raw against my pale skin. I sighed, running my fingers through my bleach-blonde hair.    
  
Curls. Maybe curls would help.    
  
I took the time to style my hair into soft, bouncy waves, letting them fall around my face, hoping they would at least distract from the bruising. Concealer did what it could, covering most of the discoloration, but nothing could hide my lip. Whatever. It wasn’t like anyone cared.    
  
I pulled on a black bodysuit, pairing it with leather leggings that hugged my curves. A stack of silver chain chokers around my neck felt like armor, like something that made me feel stronger, even if it was just an illusion. My Converses were the final touch—comfortable enough to survive the long hours ahead.    
  
Good enough for today.    
  
I grabbed my keys, locking the door behind me as I stepped into the dull morning light. Another long shift, another day of pretending. At least work gave me something else to focus on. At least there, I could be someone other than the girl trapped in this life.  
  
I climbed into my car, the engine sputtering to life as I pulled onto the road. The gas needle hovered on E, the warning light glowing like it was mocking me. Just one more thing to deal with.    
  
With a frustrated sigh, I pulled into the closest gas station, my mind already calculating how much I could spare for gas. I reached into my purse, rummaging through the pockets, only to come up empty. My stomach sank.    
  
Shawn. He had taken my tips.    
  
I clenched my jaw, forcing back the anger bubbling in my chest. Of course, he had. I should’ve known better than to leave anything where he could find it.    
  
Thankfully, I wasn’t completely out of luck. I kept a few bills stashed away in my car for emergencies—because with Shawn, there were always emergencies. I reached under the seat, pulling out a crumpled twenty. It wasn’t much, but it would get me through the day.    
  
I stepped out of the car and into the crisp autumn air, making my way inside. The coffee bar was my first stop. If I was going to survive another twelve-hour shift, caffeine was non-negotiable. I poured myself a large cup, the rich scent filling my senses, offering the smallest bit of comfort.    
  
I walked up to the counter, handing the cashier my money. She greeted me with a polite smile, but the moment her eyes landed on my face, it faltered.    
  
I hated that look. The pity. The way people always tried to pretend they weren’t staring.    
  
I swallowed hard, keeping my expression blank as she hesitated for just a second too long before handing me my change.    
  
“Have a good day,” she said softly.    
  
I forced a small nod, grabbing my coffee and heading back to my car without another word.    
  
I didn’t need her sympathy. I just needed to get through the day.  
  
I finally pulled into the parking lot behind Tony’s bar, easing into my usual spot. A few cars were already there, which meant it might be a good night for tips. I could only hope.    
  
I killed the engine and stepped out, stretching my sore limbs. The ache from last night still clung to me, a dull reminder of everything I tried to push down.    
  
Catherine was leaning against the back door, a cigarette dangling lazily from her lips. She was my age—young, wild, and free in ways I envied. Her red hair was braided into two perfect French braids, her green eyes sharp as they flicked over me.    
  
“You look like s\*\*t,” she said bluntly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Cat wasn't one to sugar coat things. She have it to me straight, even when I didn't want to hear it.  
  
“Thanks, cat,” I muttered, rolling my eyes as I shut my car door. "I didn't notice."  
  
She didn’t laugh. She just stared at me, the usual mischief in her expression dimming slightly. “When are you gonna move in with me and get away from him?”    
  
I sighed, running a hand through my untamed curls. "It's not that simple..."    
  
It never was. I wanted to leave—I did. But wanting and doing were two different things. There were too many pieces tangled together, too many ways it could go wrong.    
  
Cat scoffed, shaking her head as she took another drag of her cigarette. “It’s as simple as packing a bag and never looking back.”    
  
I finally reached her, yanking her cigarette from her and taking a couple long drags before handing it back. The smoke filling my lungs.   
  
If only.    
  
I didn’t say anything, just walked past her toward the back door. Because the truth was, I wasn’t sure if I even remembered how to leave.

Where to Read My Savage Savior: Biker Saint by Novella Wright