ISLA
Morning light filtered through the window, soft and indifferent to the storm that raged within me. I forced myself to stand, each movement a reminder of his cruelty, and made my way to the kitchen, trying to focus on something mundane. Anything to distract myself.
I ambled into the kitchen, staring at the half-empty shelves. My fingers traced the cool edge of the countertop as I scanned the contents. Milk—almost gone. Eggs—down to two. Flour, oil, butter—practically nonexistent. Even the vegetables in the fridge looked wilted, as if they’d given up on life in this house too. I sighed, closing the refrigerator door and leaning against it, the cold air brushing my skin for a fleeting moment.
We were running out of everything. I bit my lip, knowing I couldn’t ignore it any longer. The
