Amara did not scream again.
She couldn't afford to.
The first scream had ripped out of her chest the moment her eyes opened—raw, broken, animal. It had echoed through the apartment and bounced off the walls, too loud, too exposed. It reminded her how thin the silence really was, how easily it could be pierced. Now, she stood frozen at the foot of the bed, blood soaking into the carpet beneath her bare feet, forcing her lungs to keep working.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Daniel lay sprawled across the sheets, his body angled unnaturally, one arm hanging over the side of the mattress. His eyes were open and empty, fixed on nothing. Beside him was Becky—her younger sister—her lips parted as if she'd been about to laugh, or speak, or say something cruel that would have shattered Amara one last time.
They looked peaceful.
That terrified her more than the blood.
Death wasn't supposed to look like rest. It wasn't supposed to look like sleep after a long day. It was supposed to be ugly. Violent. Loud.
The knife lay on the floor beside the bed.
Her knife.
The one she used every night to chop vegetables, to slice lemons into thin, careful rounds, to make dinners she pretended mattered.
Her hands began to shake violently.
"No," she whispered, the word barely leaving her mouth. "No… I wouldn't—"
Pain exploded behind her eyes, sharp and punishing. She squeezed them shut, her head splitting as if someone had driven a wedge through her skull. Her memory refused to cooperate, fragments sliding away the moment she reached for them.
The last thing she remembered clearly was opening the bedroom door.
The sound of bodies moving.
Becky's sharp, startled gasp.
Daniel's face—twisted with fury, not guilt.
His hand coming toward her.
Then—
Nothing.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Her knees buckled, and she caught herself on the dresser, fingers digging into the wood as bile surged up her throat. She retched violently, her body folding in on itself, but nothing came up. There was nothing left inside her to give.
The metallic smell of blood filled the room, thick and suffocating. It coated her tongue, clung to the back of her throat. She gagged again, her breath coming in short, frantic bursts.
Think, she told herself.
The word cut through the panic like a blade.
Think or die.
If anyone saw this—if a neighbor heard her, if someone knocked on the door, if the police came—there would be no explanations. No space for confusion. No forgiveness.
Only cuffs.
Only prison.
Only her parents' faces collapsing in on themselves.
Only headlines.
She wiped her hands on her nightdress, smearing red across pale cotton, and forced her trembling legs to move. Every step felt unreal, as if she were walking underwater, as if gravity itself had shifted.
The sheets came first.
She grabbed them with both hands and yanked hard. The fabric resisted, tangled around limbs that refused to move, but she pulled again, harder, until the mattress was bare. Blood had soaked deep into the material, dark and sticky, clinging stubbornly to everything it touched.
Her arms burned as she dragged the sheets into the hallway, stuffing them into black trash bags with frantic efficiency. The plastic crinkled loudly in the quiet apartment, and she froze, heart slamming into her ribs.
Too loud.
Everything was too loud.
She tied the bags with shaking fingers, her breath hitching as the weight of them dragged against the floor. She had never thought blood could weigh so much.
This wasn't happening.
This couldn't be her life.
Every sound made her flinch—the low hum of the refrigerator, a car passing outside, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Each noise felt amplified, dangerous, as if the apartment itself were conspiring to betray her.
Someone is watching you.
The thought slithered into her mind, cold and invasive. Her head snapped up, eyes darting toward the doorway, the windows, the shadows pooling in corners. Her heart raced as she scanned the room, but the apartment was empty.
She was alone.
Too alone.
She turned back to the floor and dropped to her knees, grabbing a rag from the bathroom. She scrubbed at the marble with ferocious focus, her movements sharp and repetitive. Red smeared into red. Water mixed with blood, creating grotesque pink rivulets that ran toward the drain.
She scrubbed until her knuckles split open.
Until her fingers burned.
Until her arms shook from exhaustion.
Bleach stung her nose and eyes, making tears spill down her cheeks whether she wanted them or not. The chemical smell fought the copper tang in the air, but the blood refused to be erased completely, as if the apartment itself remembered.
As if it was judging her.
When she finally collapsed onto the couch, her body shaking violently, dawn was creeping through the windows. Pale light spilled across the floor, illuminating everything she hadn't finished.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Morning meant people.
Morning meant questions.
Morning meant the world waking up.
Daniel's voice echoed in her head, as clear as if he were standing behind her.
You wouldn't survive without me.
She had believed him.
For years.
Becky's laughter followed, sharp and bright.
He only married you because he felt sorry for you.
Amara pressed her hands to her ears, her fingers digging into her scalp, but the voices didn't stop. They overlapped, twisted together, a chorus of humiliation and control.
Her breathing became shallow.
She needed something to anchor her.
She reached for her phone.
The screen lit up, harsh and unforgiving. Her fingers hovered for only a moment before they began to move. Not hesitantly. Automatically.
From Daniel's phone, she sent messages.
To his parents.
To his friends.
To coworkers.
To her.
Short.
Careless.
Final.
We need space. Don't look for us.
We're leaving town. It's better this way.
From Becky's phone, she added cruelty. Distance. Certainty.
Don't call. I'm done explaining.
Her throat tightened as she hit send.
Becky had been careless—too eager to hurt her. Too confident. Photos. Videos. Voice notes. Proof of the affair, all neatly saved like trophies. Evidence she had once stared at in disbelief now became tools.
Amara used them all.
She scheduled posts. Deleted call logs. Adjusted timestamps with shaking precision. Each lie layered carefully over the next, forming something solid enough to stand on.
By the time the sun fully rose, the world believed a story.
A simple one.
The cheating husband and the reckless sister had run away together.
Scandalous.
Predictable.
Believable.
Amara sat on the floor, her back against the couch, staring at the light creeping across the walls. Her body ached in places she didn't remember hurting. Her mind felt distant, wrapped in cotton.
She was still alive.
She didn't know how long she stayed there—minutes, hours—before she finally forced herself to stand again. The knife still lay where she had left it, glinting faintly in the daylight.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then she wrapped it carefully, her movements deliberate, and carried it to the trash chute at the end of the hall. Her heart pounded violently as she dropped it in, listening as it disappeared into darkness.
Gone.
When she returned to the apartment, she showered until the water ran cold, scrubbing her skin raw. Blood spiraled down the drain, disappearing piece by piece. She dressed in clean clothes and packed a bag without thinking.
Passport.
Wallet.
Keys.
She didn't look back at the bedroom.
Not once.
By noon, she was sitting in her parents' living room, her mother's arms wrapped tightly around her. She cried then—loudly, convincingly. She let herself shake, let herself break just enough.
The broken wife.
The abandoned daughter.
The woman left behind.
No one questioned her.
No one suspected.
That night, alone in a borrowed bed, Amara stared at the ceiling and understood something with terrifying clarity.
She didn't have time to fall apart.
Grief could come later.
Guilt could wait.
Survival came first.
And whatever she had been before—soft, hopeful, trusting—had died on that bedroom floor.
Something else had taken her place.
Something that knew how to endure.