STOP the sign says. I pull forward anyway. The street I’m driving on is splintered and pocked with marks, and my car jostles furiously as I coast down the street. The homes surrounding me are small; quaint. Earthy tones of red and gray, brick and navy, and black and white surround me. The trees are bare and rather sad looking, as if they are waiting to be noticed; to be of importance. I sigh. The sky, with its ashy gray cast, has a melancholic semblance that looms around me. The homes are neither ornate nor Spartan; they are humble and forgiving. I shiver as the cold wraps itself around my spine with an icy whisper. Today, the world has left me in a sluggish state. I see no color, and hear no laughter. I look down at my wrist. The pale blue veins streaking through my arm remind me how delicate I am. I adjust the car mirror. I pause before I look up, not ready to face my own reality. I take my time looking up, first focusing on the pilling of my gray sweatpants, then the splotched windshield before me, until I am greeted by my eyes in the mirror. One black, one blue. One black and blue. I stare at my forehead and the small creases clustered around my hairline. I move to my cheekbones. My sullen face stares defiantly back. I don’t remember when I lost my youthful glow and supple skin, but as I stare now, my face is nothing but sunken in; a pile of skin and bones. I remember when I used to be pretty. I shake my head, banishing the thought of what used to be. What used to be is not what is now. I glance at my clock. Shoot. I’m 10 minutes late. I hurriedly drive on, as if for a moment, I can outrun time and beat it at its own game. I know when I get home He will be waiting for me. I feel my throat tighten. He. My stomach lurches, and my knuckles grip the wheel tighter. Him. I spend the rest of the drive silent, not knowing what is waiting for me on the other side of the door when I get home. I am distracted as I drive home; I am plagued by the thought of what is to come. I wish I had somewhere to go or someone to call. I realize now. I am alone. I am strong, I tell myself. I can do it. Deep down I know I am lying. At the next intersection, my fingers drum on the wheel. I allow myself to think a bit at every red light; it’s a habit of mine. Red lights don’t last too long, so you know all of your darkest thoughts will be over before you knew they even started. I think back to when we met. I saw Him, in my favorite Saturday coffee shop. Those were the days when I  saw everything. I could see vibrant colors, bright reds, smears of lime green, the sound of laughter, and the yellow glow of a smile. Now, I see nothing. Green light. I’m almost to our apartment. We’ve shared it for some time now. My apartment used to be my safe haven. I felt hidden away from the rest of the world, which was a relief at times. I never knew hidden could be such a bad thing. As I pull up into the parking lot, I check my phone. No missed calls. Weird. Usually He would have called me by now, berating me for being late. When I don’t follow my schedule, He gets mad. I slowly walk up to our door. I put my keys in, bracing myself for impact. Click. Turn. I’m inside. I turn around. He is not there. I search the rest of the house. He is not anywhere. My heart races. It pulsates to the sound of my own fear. I wonder what He could possibly be doing, and why He is doing it. I go to our room. I hate that word. Our. I used to be Me. Now He insists that everything must be Ours. I want to go back to being Me. I go to the bathroom, before He gets home, and nervously open the cabinet. I take out the cleaning solution, and undress. Even though He is not here, I still am nervous. I tenderly dab my cuts, paying special attention to the bruises. Click. He is home. I fumble with my clothes as the lock turns. I flush the toilet, trying to make it seem like I had just been using the bathroom. I greet Him in the entranceway. Hello, I say. I see that He has been drinking. He greets me with a smile. It’s the type of smile only men like Him do, not the type of smile you have on your face when you open your birthday present. I know what is going to happen. I ask what He wants for dinner. He doesn’t respond; He only gives me the same grin as before. I try to go to the kitchen to cook something, thinking I can prevent what is about to happen from happening. Too late. I feel his hand snake around me, and grip my body forcefully. There is no preventing it. When this happens I try to close my eyes. I feel His rough hands against me, and I think of my veins. I am delicate, I remember. In these moments, I try not to worry myself. I like to go somewhere in my mind, and stay there. Today, I can’t. My cuts and bruises burn with a fiery pain as he grazes them. There is something I want to say, but I know I can’t. As his hands near my face, my throat tightens and my stomach tenses. I try to keep the words down; they must not be set free. His hand wraps around my neck. I choke down my words; I hold my tongue. My body is aching and yearning for a change; I feel as if I am trapped. I can see myself, shrinking, weakening. I know I must save myself, yet there is nothing around me. I am alone, in a vast ocean, and I must accept that I will drown. I think of myself as a child. I was so innocent, and so naive. Now I am here; a lifeless sack of skin and bones to be used. I try to grasp onto something; my body is slowly rejecting Him and all He has done. I know I must try something, as I feel the heaviness closing in. I think, and think, and think, but to no avail. Finally. STOP.