Page 137 of Unhinged

ANISSA

I packed a very small bag.

One shirt. A knife. My skincare products, the crystal he bought me. No matter how much the need to leave feels urgent, I can’t seem to rush the packing because I don’twantto go.

None of this belongs to me. Not the house, not the man, not even the silence.Idon't belong here. I can't stay, knowing that the only thing he needs to make his world right is the one thingI can't give him.

My hands tremble as I pack the very few things I own and zip the bag halfway. The book of poems lies on top. My throat gets tight.

And all I loved—I loved alone.

My stupid tears don’t ask permission; they just come of their own accord.

I go downstairs and walk to the pantry. And for some reason, I can't do it. I can't think of what I need, what I have to say, where I could go.

We're not married. I'm not his wife.

All the other women of the Bratva, they're married. And that means something to these men.

I’m just… me.

I can't bear him a child. I have nothing to bring to the table.

And he says he owns me.

But what does that mean in the greater scheme of things?

Nothing.

Nothing.

The thought of leaving him feels like I'm breaking my own heart. I've never felt understood like I do with him. I've never wanted someone the way I want him. My life went on before him, but now… for the first time ever, I had begun to hope.

And hope is a beautiful thing.

But when I go downstairs, I'mnotalone.

The kitchen lights are dim. I can still smell the lingering scent of the citrus cleaner I used to wipe down the bathroom. The back window is cracked open, and a draft makes the kitchen curtain flutter.

I shiver, then freeze. My heart kicks into my throat.

I can feel the presence of someone else. It can’t be someone who shouldn’t be here; the doors are locked, and security’s here. I didn’t hear anyone breaking in.

"M-Matvei?" I call out, but it's impossible. He can't be home yet unless he teleported. I just spoke with him on the phone—he said he was still an hour away.

There's no way?—

Oh, shit.

No.

Not this again.

I slowly turn.

“Irma?”

Irma stands near the pantry, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like she’s been waiting for this. She wears one of her signature too-tight sweaters and blinding lipstick.

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