She winced at the bruised reflection emerging, scored by the shrill squeal produced by the slow, circular motion of her wet hand on the mirror.
“I loathe you, you know. You’re weak. You’re nothing!” She surrendered to the voices in her head, letting them to spill through her lips, hot tears burning her swollen cheeks.
No one believed her; not even the women. He was an esteemed community leader…board chair for the battered women’s shelter, a church deacon, little league coach.
She packed a few belongings and disappeared quietly; no note, no goodbyes. That is how nothing leaves a room.
100 words for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneer’s Challenge prompted by her photo of a closet-shower above.