Part 001 · BRUISES FROM SILENCE | Serial 001

PROLOGUE: THE CABINET SLAM

The cupboard slammed so hard it shuddered through the wall and into my ribs. Not an accident. Not the wind. It was the sound of her, distilled into one sharp note, a warning I’d heard enough times to know the rest of the song.

I froze mid-sip, coffee halfway to my mouth. The mug trembled slightly in my hand. I pretended it was the caffeine, though I hadn’t had enough for that. The television was on but muted, the glow washing over the living room like cold light in a morgue. The sports anchor’s mouth moved, his smile frozen in its own world where nothing slammed and nothing broke.

In the kitchen, another cupboard opened. Closed. Opened again, faster. The scrape of something metal in the sink. The hiss of a bottle cap spun once on the counter before clinking to a stop.

She moved like she always did when she was wired: sharp turns, restless hands, no straight lines between points. I couldn’t see her yet, but she was here. Even in another room, she was in the room.

I set the mug down carefully on its coaster. A quiet sound. Harmless. The trick was to make every sound harmless.

Her shadow arrived in the doorway before she did. Then she stepped into view. Her pupils were wide enough to swallow the brown in her eyes. The high knot of her hair listed to one side. She was still in the oversized T-shirt she’d worn that morning, neck stretched, hem brushing her thighs. In her right hand, a sweating beer bottle; in the left, nothing, but the fingers twitched like they remembered something to hold.

“You didn’t answer me,” she said.

My mouth was dry. “Did you ask something?”

“When I came in. I asked where you were earlier.”

“I told you this morning,” I said, slower than normal, careful with tone. “At work.”

She tilted her head, and I saw the calculation flicker behind her face. “You’re always at work.”

“That’s… the job.” I forced the smallest laugh, a soft landing for the sentence. “That’s what they pay me for.”

Her lips parted in something that could have been a smile if it had any warmth in it. “Do you think you’re funny?”

“No.” I kept my hands loose at my sides. “I think I’m tired.”

“Of me?” It was casual, but the way her voice dropped told me the wrong answer could open the next round.

“Of working,” I said, the lie tasting like copper.

She took a step forward, beer swinging in her hand. “You think I don’t notice.”

“Notice what?”

“That you’d rather be anywhere else.” Her eyes roamed over me, slow and deliberate. “That you don’t care. That you think I’m a mess you regret letting in.”

“I’ve never...”

“You don’t have to say it,” she cut in. “It’s in your eyes.”

I stood, because sitting while she circled me felt like surrender. “Anaïs...”

The slap came fast, her palm stinging against my cheek before I even registered her arm moving. Heat bloomed under my skin, radiating outward. I tasted bitterness, adrenaline or shame, maybe both.

I didn’t touch my face. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me mark the wound.

She turned away like it never happened, pacing back into the kitchen. The beer bottle landed on the counter with a dull thunk. The fridge opened, light spilling out, and stayed open far too long.

My cheek throbbed. Not the worst she’d done. Not even close.
But my mind went to the bag under the bed, the one I packed weeks ago: clothes, passport, cash, work laptop, toothbrush. Every night since, I told myself the same thing: If she did it again, I’d go.

She had. And now the promise was sitting between us like something alive.

I walked to the bedroom. I didn’t hurry. If I hurried, it was a confession.

The bedroom smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the lavender spray she used on the pillows when she was in her “domestic” phase, which could last anywhere from an hour to a day. The streetlight outside sliced an orange bar across the floorboards.

I knelt, pulled the bed skirt up, and slid out the duffel. The zipper snagged on the rug’s weave; I freed it with more force than I meant to. My hands were steady. For now.

The duffel was small but enough. It had to be enough. I sat on the edge of the bed with it in my lap. I listened for her: the pace of her steps, the tone of any muttering. I’d learned to read moods in sound the way I read server logs at work.

A flash memory intruded:

* Her laughing in the early days, head tilted back, sunlight pooling in the hollow of her throat.

* The night she locked me out in the rain because she’d “had a feeling.”

* Her voice whispering a poem into my ear, the words like music.
* Her hand gripping my wrist so hard the next day’s bruise looked like fingerprints from someone else.

The floor creaked under her weight. She was heading this way. I slid the bag back, under the bed’s shadow.

She appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

“It’s late, Anaïs.”

She stared at me, head tilted. “You’re hiding something.”

I met her eyes, though every part of me said don’t. “I’m not.”

“You’re lying.” She said it lightly, but her hand gripped the doorframe like she was holding herself back from something.

“I’m tired,” I repeated.

“Then come sit with me.”

“In a minute.”

“Now.” Her voice sharpened.

I stayed where I was.

She studied me for another beat, then turned and walked away. I heard the cupboard slam again, harder this time.
Something in me flinched so deep it felt inherited.

I stayed seated. My hands were tight on my knees. The air felt heavy, like the apartment was holding its breath.

I thought of the bag. I thought of Andre, telling me over lunch, If you ever need out, just call. No questions.
I thought of how many times I’d almost called.

My phone lit up on the dresser: a message from him: Just checking in. You good?

I typed: Not really. I deleted it. I typed: I’m fine. I deleted that too. The screen went black.

The fridge shut. Footsteps returned, slower this time. She appeared again, beer gone, empty hands. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Work.”

She smiled without humor. “You love work more than me.”

“I don’t think it’s a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

She walked in, stopped just in front of me. “Say you won’t leave.”

I didn’t.

“Say it.”

“I can’t.”

Something flickered across her face, hurt, rage, maybe both, and then her hand twitched like she was deciding whether to hit me again. She didn’t.
Not yet.

She turned, grabbed the edge of the open cupboard, and slammed it shut hard enough that the plates inside protested. My body reacted before my mind did: a flinch, a step back, a tightening in my chest.

She noticed. She always noticed.

“You’re scared of me,” she said, almost pleased.

I didn’t answer. Because the truth would taste like blood.

She leaned against the counter, watching me. “If you leave, you’ll regret it. You’ll miss me.”

I thought of the bag. I thought of how quiet the air might be somewhere else. I thought of sleeping through the night without my body listening for the next noise.

“Tonight,” I said, my voice low but clear, “if it happens again, I go.”

She blinked. “If what happens again?”

“You hurt me.”

She scoffed. “You? Hurt?”

“Yes.”

Her laugh was sharp. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not.” I stood, keeping my eyes on hers. “I’m done pretending it’s nothing.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. The apartment held still. The fridge hummed in the silence.

She turned away first. “We’ll see,” she said over her shoulder, voice almost sing-song. Then she disappeared into the living room.

I sat back on the bed. The duffel was still there, waiting.
So was I.

And in the other room, another cupboard slammed.