The heater groans, but it doesn't make the room warm.
I sit on the edge of my futon, hugging my knees to my chest. The sleeves of my sweater cover most of the bruises. I can still feel the last one throbbing near my ribs where his boot caught me two nights ago. I haven't told anyone. I never do.
The apartment smells like cigarette smoke and cooking oil that burned hours ago. Outside the window, snow falls steadily, blanketing Biei in white, softening the world. I wish it could do the same in here.
My finger is swollen from earlier. He didn't like how I was cutting the vegetables. Said I was being lazy again. Before I could apologize, the back of his hand hit my face so fast I didn't even register the pain until I was on the floor. I didn't cry. I never cry in front of him.
He didn't look at me. He never does when he hits me.
I stare at the corner of the ceiling where the wallpaper peels. I've memorized every crack in this room. It's easier than looking at him.
"Did you finish cleaning the bathroom?" His voice grates like broken glass.
"Yes," I answer. My voice barely leaves my throat.
He walks into the room. My body tenses.
"Then why does it still stink like mildew?" He doesn't wait for an answer. His hand grabs my arm and yanks me up hard enough to make me stumble. "Are you dumb or just lazy?"
I don't resist. Resistance only makes it worse.
"I—I'll clean it again."
He pushes me. I hit the doorframe with my shoulder. The sharp edge bites through the fabric. I keep my eyes down. Don't react. Don't give him a reason for more.
"You live here for free, you eat my food, and you can't even clean a damn bathroom properly." His breath smells like beer. "Don't come out until it's spotless."
He walks away, the TV turning up again like nothing happened.
My shoulder throbs. My hands shake. I pick up the rag and cleaner and go into the bathroom. I scrub. I scrub until the tiles shine and my knuckles split open.
When I finish, I don't say a word. I grab my coat.
"Where do you think you're going?" he calls out, not even turning his head from the screen.
"Taking out the trash."
He grunts.
There's no trash in my hands.
I shut the door behind me.
The cold air bites, but it's the first thing that feels real all day. Snowflakes melt against my cheeks. I walk fast, away from the building, away from everything. Past the streets, past the lights. No one stops me. No one asks questions.
I walk until the houses disappear behind me, and all that's left is white and silence.
The snowfield.
I step into it, boots sinking deep, the wind brushing my hair across my face. The world is endless and empty and perfect. No walls. No fists. No shouting.
For the first time all day, I breathe. Really breathe.
And something inside me stirs—not warmth, but something like the memory of it.
Freedom.
Even if it only lasts until morning.