My Soft Life Came With Scars

Anne didn’t pack a bag. She packed silence. It was 3:14 a.m. when she slipped out the back door, barefoot, her heart thudding louder than her steps. He was asleep — drunk, like always — and she wasn’t going to wait for morning. Morning came with fists, spit, and apologies that meant nothing. Tonight, she left. Her hands trembled as she closed the gate behind her. Her nightgown was ripped near the shoulder, her lip still bleeding from earlier. But for the first time in two years, she wasn’t being watched. ________ He used to say he loved her. Especially after the beatings. “I only hit you because you pushed me.” “You’re lucky I still want you.” “No one else would tolerate you.” Love, to him, was control. Possession. Anne wasn’t allowed to go out without asking. Her phone was checked. Her friends vanished. Her voice, even quieter. At first, she thought he was just protective. Then he started using his fists instead of words. He’d slap her if dinner wasn’t warm. Pull her hair if she looked at another man. Shove her against the wall, then kiss her afterward like nothing happened. One time, he forced himself on her after accusing her of cheating. She bled all night. She stopped crying after the third time. Stopped hoping he’d change. Stopped believing the softness she gave would ever be returned. So when he passed out that night, face-down on the couch reeking of cheap whiskey and ego, she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t look back. She didn’t know where she was going. Just away. Away was enough. Three days passed in a blur of pain and dirt. Anne hid in an abandoned house on the edge of town. It stank of old and rat piss, but the gangs that hung around barely noticed her — at first. At night, she curled herself near a broken window, using her arms as a pillow and her thoughts as a blanket. The cold bit into her skin, but she didn’t mind. The silence was louder than the punches had ever been. Sometimes she swore she heard him calling her name in her dreams. Sometimes she dreamed of hands grabbing her again. But when she woke up, all she saw was darkness and cracked walls. And that meant she was still free. Until the fifth night. They came in laughing. Boots scraping concrete. Bottles clinking. Anne didn’t move. Maybe they wouldn’t notice her. Maybe— “Who’s this?” She sat up too fast. Three men. Rough, young. Their eyes drank her in like she was prey. She backed into the wall, but there was nowhere left to go. “Please…” Her voice was dry. Weak. The first one laughed and stepped closer. “Relax. We just wanna talk.” They didn’t. ⸻ She didn’t know how long it lasted. Time doesn’t exist when your body becomes a battlefield. They called her names. Ripped what little clothing she had. Used her like she was less than nothing. And when they finished, they left her bleeding. Shaking. Shattered. She lay there, half-conscious, staring at the rust on the ceiling and wondering if death would’ve been kinder. ⸻ Days blurred together. Sometimes they fed her — scraps. A cold slice of bread. Half a drink someone had already opened. Other times, nothing. Her stomach ached constantly. Her skin bruised in places she didn’t even know could bruise. She didn’t cry anymore. Tears were a luxury she couldn’t afford. Then… there was him. Liam. ⸻ The first time she noticed him, he was watching the others — not her. His jaw clenched when they laughed too loudly. His fists balled when one of them spat at her. He never said anything. But when the others were gone, he left a can of beans near her side. She didn’t eat it that night. Thought it was poisoned. A trick. The next day, there was bread. Then water. Then — a blanket. And for the first time in weeks, someone said her name like it was a name. “Anne?” Her eyes snapped up. Liam crouched near the broken steps, hands raised like he was the one afraid. “I’m not here to hurt you.” Anne didn’t respond. She wanted to believe him — the softness in his voice, the fear in his eyes — but trust wasn’t something she could afford anymore. Kindness had always come with a knife behind the back. Liam didn’t push. He just placed a clean rag beside her and walked away. That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, Anne wiped her own blood off her skin. ⸻ A week passed. Liam kept coming. Quietly. Softly. He brought soap. A comb. A worn-out hoodie that smelled like tobacco and sun. He never asked questions. Never touched her. Some nights, they’d sit at opposite ends of the room. Silent. Breathing. The others barely noticed. Or didn’t care. Then one morning, Anne didn’t get up. The nausea hit like a brick. She threw up everything in her stomach — which wasn’t much. Her knees trembled. Her heart dropped. It couldn’t be. But it was. She was pregnant. ⸻ She didn’t know whose it was. Didn’t want to know. Her body had stopped being hers a long time ago — now it was just… a container. Of pain. Of shame. Of something growing that she didn’t ask for. When Liam found her curled up, shaking, she didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. His eyes lowered to her stomach. Then lifted back to hers. And for the first time, she saw pity — not disgust — in a man’s eyes. ⸻ “I know someone,” he said two nights later. Anne shook her head violently. “No. No doctors.” “It’s not like that,” he said quickly. “A woman. Quiet. Safe. She won’t ask questions.” Anne hesitated. “I’m not telling you to do it,” Liam added. “I’m just… giving you a choice.” That night, he didn’t bring food. He brought dignity. ⸻ Two days later, she agreed. She was too weak. Too afraid. And too tired of waking up hating the thing growing inside her. The woman lived three streets away. No clinic sign. Just a candle in the window and hands that had done this before. Anne didn’t cry during the procedure. But she cried that night, on the mattress in Liam’s house, when he held a glass of water for her and whispered, “You’re safe now.” She didn’t believe it. But it was the first time she wanted to. Liam’s apartment wasn’t much — one bedroom, a couch that sagged, and a fridge that buzzed louder than the TV. But to Anne, it felt like a palace. There were no locks on doors. No threats whispered in the dark. No footsteps to fear. Just space. Just quiet. Just… room to breathe. He let her sleep in the bedroom while he stayed on the couch. Every morning, there was tea waiting on the table. Every evening, warm rice or noodles in mismatched bowls. He never asked what happened. And she never offered to tell. ⸻ For weeks, Anne barely spoke. She’d sit near the window and watch people walk past below — laughing, hurrying, living. She wondered if she’d ever be part of that world again. If she even wanted to. Her body still ached. Her nightmares still came. But slowly, very slowly, the weight on her chest began to ease. She showered more. Ate more. Looked in the mirror longer. There were still shadows in her eyes, but they weren’t swallowing her whole anymore. ⸻ One afternoon, Liam came home with a flyer. He slid it onto the table like it was a fragile secret. “Big company downtown,” he said. “They need part-time cleaners. Pays decent. No interviews. Just show up and work.” Anne stared at it. It felt too soon. Too risky. Too… normal. “I can go with you the first day,” Liam offered. “Just till you settle in.” She traced the logo on the paper with her fingertip. A fancy-looking gold crest. ‘Devon Holdings’ it read. Anne hesitated. Her voice barely left her lips. “I’ll try.”