The night was deep, and the air was damp and cold. Lisa sat on the living room sofa, hands clenched tightly around a teacup, her knuckles pale. Outside, the rain fell like a dense, suffocating net, covering her world.
From beyond the door came staggering footsteps, the jangle of keys fumbling at the lock. That familiar, dreadful sound pierced her nerves like a needle. She instinctively hunched her shoulders; the tea sloshed over the rim and scalded her hand—but she didn't flinch. She simply stared at the droplet as it hit the floor, red like blood.
Lisa knew—he was drunk again.
Five years. From the tenderness of their first meeting to the fists and kicks after marriage. Every time he hit her, he would cry, apologize, swear he would never do it again. She had believed him—tried to understand. But time is the cruelest judge. Over time, she realized—it wasn't that she had done something wrong. It was that this man needed control, an outlet, someone to conquer. And she happened to be the chosen one.
She had thought about leaving. A few times, she mustered the courage to move back to her parents' home, only to be swayed by his pleas and her family's persuasion:"What man doesn't raise a hand once in a while?""Give him another chance!""All couples fight—make up and move on."
With a loud bang, the door was kicked open. He stormed in, cursing incoherently, eyes bloodshot and locked onto her. She dared not meet his gaze, lowered her head like a fawn awaiting judgment. But his rage didn't need a reason—it just needed a target.
Slaps. Shoves. Kicks.The ritual began.
That night, for some reason, Lisa's body didn't freeze like it usually did. There were no tears in her eyes—only an eerie calm. It was as if she stood in the corner of the room, watching a version of herself long since hollowed out being dragged into the kitchen, her head slammed into the wall, blood trailing down her forehead.
Suddenly, she remembered a book she had read days ago. It said that in moments of extreme trauma, the mind could enter a dissociative state—a split between emotion and reality, like the soul temporarily leaving the body. That's what she felt like—a spectator, watching her body being trampled, watching a fruit knife appear in her hand.
When she came to, the knife was already buried in his chest. Deep.His eyes were wide, filled with terror and disbelief.He slowly collapsed, as if unable to comprehend that the timid woman had actually fought back.
The room fell silent, deathly still. Only the rain continued outside, as if mourning something unspeakable.
She crouched down and whispered to herself,"This isn't the ending I wanted… but I can't wait for death to rescue me anymore."
The police came. The neighbors had called them.She sat in the patrol car, her face expressionless—except for an unfamiliar sense of release.
Some people, after enduring unspeakable pain, are spiritually reborn.Lisa didn't know if she would ever grow from this,but she knew she had finally torn through the invisible cage that had imprisoned her.
Dawn was near.She leaned against the car window, gazing at the sky slowly turning pale in the distance,and murmured,"I'm finally free."