I stopped typing and glanced at my computer screen to go back over everything I had worked on so far. 

I was working on creating a story about a girl who was being bullied by classmates, and how she was looking for help outside of her family because their advice wasn't stopping the problem. I was well aware of this being a metaphor for what I was going through. Writing was how I coped with my problems. It was where I imagined far more magical and fun realities for myself to escape into, to explore, and even to live in. 

My main character, Annika Brooks, would stumble across a tall, lanky man sitting on a small flight of stairs leading to nothing but an empty lot where a house should be. The more she realizes she needs help, the more developed the invisible house becomes. 

At one point in the book, she'll actually be able to enter the house and become friends with the man, who has an enchanted house connected to different worlds. Together, along with an extra main companion or two, they'll explore these alternate realities and help others in solving their problems, and get into trouble and mischief along the way. 

For now, I just focused on Annika Brooks meeting this mysterious man, who went by, "the Professor." Her glasses had just been broken by the school bullies earlier that same day, which gave her a reason to need to vent about her frustrations to a complete stranger. 

After reading aloud my rough draft to myself once more, I saved it with a click of a button. For now, I was happy with how my story was sounding, but I wasn't sure what the eye color would be for the Professor.

A sigh escaped from my lips. I reached over to the bottle of soda sitting on my desk and gazed at the label for a few moments before unscrewing the cap and taking a few sips. Being addicted to carbonated water and sugar wasn't the healthiest thing in the world, but there were worse things I could be dependent on.

"Honey! Come downstairs and watch a movie with me!" my husband called from downstairs. For a moment I hesitated. There was so much more work to be done. I didn't want to go to the basement and watch tv for hours with him. It was such a waste of valuable time I could be spending creating stories and drawings. I wanted to keep working while our son was asleep.

"I'll be down in ten more minutes!" I shouted back before glancing at the clock on my computer. Nine in the evening. I had a gut feeling that he hadn't put our son Oliver to bed. His bedtime was at eight.

I saved my Word document once more before shutting off my computer and gliding down the stairs. The top floor to our house was one giant room, which we had turned into our office. My desk sat adjacent to my husband's desk. There was a little rectangular window that sat between them, which gave us a small glimpse of the snowy streets below.

The ground floor had the master bedroom, Oliver's room, a kitchen, and a dining room. After passing our son's room and seeing it empty, I swiftly walked down the second set of stairs leading to the basement. As I had suspected, Oliver was sitting entranced in front of the tv with his father.

"Steven, it's past his bedtime..." I began hesitantly, "could you put him to bed for me please?"

My husband had been kind to me for the past week since Oliver and I had moved back in with him from my parent's house. He had helped me with chores around the house and taking care of Oliver so far without complaining. It seemed almost too good to be true. I was afraid of trusting that he had changed. Part of me wanted so badly to believe that he had learned his lesson, but I was still afraid of getting comfortable with these much appreciated changes in his behavior.

A few seconds had passed by since I had asked. Steven had still not replied. I held my breath and waited for his answer.

"Yeah, I can do that," he finally said as he got up and stretched his broad arms into the air, "come on Oliver, bedtime."

"Love you, sweetheart," I said to our son and kissed his forehead.

Oliver went willingly with Steven upstairs. I exhaled sharply and sunk into the soft, dark gray couch. Maybe I was crazy after all. Maybe Steven was always nice like this and I just over exaggerated the situations in my mind whenever we had fights. 

Maybe, everything is going to be alright... 

I waited for Steven to come back down by hopping onto my phone and scrolling through the news feed on Facebook. It was nice to see how happy my friends from high school looked. I wanted to reach out to some of them and ask how they were, but I thought better of it. Steven was going to be back down any minute and wouldn't be happy if I were to ignore him.

"How are your friends doing?"

I stiffened and turned to find Steven standing in the doorway with a popcorn bowl in his arms.

"I didn't reach out to anyone, I... I was just looking at their posts," I stammered.

Steven slid into the seat next to me and looked at my phone. "That's good."

Ping.

Without warning, my phone went off. I glanced nervously at the screen. Edmund, one of my best friends from high school, had messaged me. "Hey! Haven't talked in forever. How are you?"

"I'd better answer..." I breathed, my fingers hovering over my phone's keyboard. I was waiting for the inevitable explosion where Steven would start screaming at me for responding to messages from my friends.

Steven watched my movements carefully, like a predator studying it's prey.

"Hey Edmund! I've just been busy. Being a mom and all. How are you?" I typed quickly before hitting the send button.

Ping.

"I'm great! Just living in Japan, the place you've always wanted to visit."

I smiled to myself. He actually made it, the jerk. Edmund had joined the Air Force and had been determined to make it to Japan before I did, and he won. I felt incredibly happy for him.

"Congratul-" I began typing before my phone was forcibly removed from my hand. I jolted and looked up at Steven, whose face was scowling ferociously at me.

"What did I tell you about talking to other guys?" he hissed angrily at me.

This was the Steven I knew, the one I had been dreading to see again. Oddly enough, part of me relaxed. It was good to know that I wasn't insane, that I was, in fact, seeing reality.

"Can't I, can't I at least congratulate him?" I asked timidly. I wasn't sure how out of control Steven was going to get, but I hoped that me being nice and asking respectfully would calm him down enough so I could get my phone back.

"No. Stop ignoring me." 

To my dismay, Steven pocketed my phone and turned on the television. "If you spend time with me then I'll give it back."

I wanted to cry. I knew him being nice to me wasn't going to last, it never did. I thought back to my Dad and I's conversation from a week ago. Steven throwing things at me wasn't enough to get a divorce. If I wanted my family to back me on leaving Steven, then he needed to physically assault me.

Am I ready to provoke Steven enough to make him hit me? I wondered to myself. I wanted my freedom so badly, but I was still afraid. 

Would he punch me in the face? 

How much was it going to hurt? 

Would I be able to call 911 afterwards? 

Would I even be conscious after taking a blow from him? 

So many questions swirled around in my mind. I wasn't sure what to do. Did I dare to take the chance and try to earn my freedom, or back down and do as Steven said like I had so many times before?

"Please give me back my phone, Steven," I said as calmly as I could, doing my best to hide my fear.

"Why? So you can ignore me again?"

"I just want to respond to Edmund, that's all."

"Are you in love with him?" Steven asked, his eyes narrowing.

"No. He's just my friend. But..." I hesitated a moment, but forced myself to keep talking, "if I leave him hanging, he'll worry about me. He might even think that you're doing something to keep me from responding."

I was pushing it. Steven stood up from the couch, enraged.

"What do you mean he'll think I'm doing something? Have you been telling him about our marital affairs, Shy? That's private! You don't get to talk about what goes on with anyone!"

If I kept going, Steven might try to hit me.

"I was telling him along with my other friends what had been going on while we were separated for three months-"

Steven towered over me. I was cornered on the couch. I wanted to grab my phone from his pocket and run, but I stayed sitting and stared up at him.

He raised his arm to strike me. I braced myself.

This was it. I was going to have proof that he hit me. I was going to find a way to call the police. My parents would finally support me getting a divorce.

I would finally be free.

I waited.

And waited...

Nothing happened.

I looked up at Steven. He was lowering his arm and staring oddly at me.

"You want me to hit you, don't you?"

My heart sank.

He laughed at me. "I'll never hit you, Shy. Never. You're not getting divorced from me. You'll be the sinner if you do, and your family will never side with you."

My plan was ruined. 

I was stuck with Steven. 

Forever. 

My only other options were to run away with Oliver or get a divorce without my parent's consent and be deemed the "one in sin" by them and the church. That meant forever being ousted by them all, the equivalent of wearing a scarlet letter. I didn't want Steven to think he had foiled my plan, so I calmly replied, "Why would you even act like you were going to hit me in the first place?"

Steven sat back down next to me. He was still angry, but was calming himself down. "Because you need to know your place. Women are cursed. You have to submit yourself to me because I'm the head of this family."

"You've been telling me for years that everything is my fault and I'm the problem, so why stay with me? Why do you even want to be with me?" I asked, trying to keep my tears in.

"Because you need help, and I'm going to fix you."

I was itching to get out of the room so my husband wouldn't see me cry.

"I'm tired. I'm going to take a shower and go to bed. Goodnight."

I quickly ran upstairs and turned on the shower in the bathroom. The water would wash away my tears. I got undressed and sat down in the shower, hid my face between my knees, and sobbed.