I sit upright in bed, pillows stacked behind me, the ugly purple bedding with the bold yellow floral pattern set I hate draped over my legs. The room is spotless finally after an hour of deep cleaning, my personal belongings secretly placed in a way that will make them easier to pack when I can finally leave. A haphazard pile of photographs sit in front of me as I search through them, deciding which to keep and which to leave. Any with Michael automatically goes to the pile to my left. I want no reminder of him when I'm free. To my right sits three images. One of my mum and dad on their wedding day, me secretly hiding in her stomach. Another of me quietly reading Lorna Doone, curled in an armchair, the lights dimmed. The third is my ultrasound, I can't bare the thought of leaving my child behind in this god awful place. I'm conscious of any sound around me; twigs tapping on the bedroom window, pipes emptying, water dripping. Waiting for anything out of the ordinary. For Michael to come back. I've seen very little of him since I returned from the hospital, yet the venom still spews from his mouth at any given chance. He's furious that I would embarrass him, as though my mental state is in anyway under my control. When I've finally rifled through every photograph I'm left with a very small pile of ten. Ten photos out of hundreds that Michael hasn't tainted. It's a little saddening, my adult life with him limited to such a small memento. I carefully hide my selection in the pocket of my handbag, stowed away in my suitcase back in its home at the bottom of my wardrobe. Stacking the remainder of the images back into the shoebox, not caring if they bend in the process, I close the lid and place them on top of Michael's wardrobe where they belong. My eyes glide around the room, looking for anything else I might be able to take. I've decided to leave most of the books on the large white bookcase next to our bedroom window. Just a select few, placed together on a single shelf, will be coming with me mostly for the sentiment they provide. It's a risky move, with Michael ordering every book precisely, but it's one I can no doubt provide a reasonable excuse for. I won't have the time to scan the shelves when I leave after all.

I'm convinced there's nothing further in this room for me to sort out, so I make my way to the adjoining bathroom. The floor is cold against my bare feet so it's a job I want to complete quickly. I line my toiletries on the 3 above the sink, my toothbrush remaining in its holder until I go. It's a quick task and I'm thankful to bury my feet back into the warmth of the carpet. About an hour ago I sent a text message to Andrew, letting him know my plan, secretly hoping he'd respond, that he'd let me stay with him at least for a little while. As of yet, my phone has not pinged. I can't say I'm overly surprised, he made himself very clear, but I had to give it a shot. With nothing of dire need in the kitchen, I scramble through the shelves and drawers in the living room trying to find my passport and birth certificate. I come up empty. Where the fuck has he put them? I pull everything out, a mess forming around me as I desperately claw my way through the mounds of paperwork. He's hidden them, he must have! They were right here. I can feel the panic starting to set in. I need my ID. Certain they're not in any of the drawers I stuff everything back in and shove it closed making sure no paper hangs out. There's only one other place I can think of.

Looking out the window to make sure Michael isn't pulling into the drive, I almost sprint back to our bedroom. His wardrobe almost topples with the force I use to open the door. Sure enough, his safe is nestled beneath a mound of clothing. I punch in the code listening for the accepting click. Error. What the fuck! I try again, making sure to press each button carefully. The same message. That bastard! He's changed the combination. I scream in frustration, banging my fists on the wooden door. What the hell could he have changed it to? I don't want to try luck with random numbers that may hold some significance to him. I need to find out what it is. And there's only one place I can think of where it might be. His study.

I stand outside the door, hand held out towards the handle. I've never stepped foot in there, have never been allowed now brave enough to risk a peek. Part of me wants to run and hide under the duvet like a child. The other part, the louder part, is desperate to escape. With a deep breathe in I pull the handle down and push the door open. I stare for a second before stepping inside. It's immaculate. Everything in its place, not a spot of dust that I can see. Folders and books neatly line the shelves either side of the wall. A large mahogany desk sits in the centre just in front of the large window I'd often look up at when in the garden, wondering what he was doing locked away from the world. I need to be careful not to move anything out of its place, to not leave a trace of my existence here. I tiptoe, though I'm not sure why since the house is deserted, towards his desk. The first drawer is locked, the key in Michael's possession no doubt. I tug at the second and let out a squeal of delight as it opens with ease. Paperwork is stacked neatly inside. Sifling through I find nothing of interest. No dates or numbers sticking out. With a sigh I try the next again with no luck. I close my eyes, silently praying as I open the last drawer. It's almost completely empty, with only a small black notebook placed inside. With a quick look at the door I pull it out and open it. Sick rises to my throat as the words jump out at me. The sick fuck has documented everything he's put me through over the years. The subtle comments I'd not noticed scrawled in his almost illegible handwriting. Comments about my choice of clothing, my weight, my experiment with red hair dye that he had told me made me look like a cheap hooker. I continue reading, unable to stop myself. The rape, the beatings, even the loss of my child is all documented. The book falls from hands landing with a thump on the floor as I begin to sob. That sick fuck! He'd kept a diary of it all. Proudly announcing in black ink how his torment left me broken and bruised. I've married a monster.

Daisy's barks alert me to the front door slamming shut. Hastily grabbing the book, four numbers stare back at me 15/08. The date of my rape. The code. It must be. I carefully yet quickly place the book back, quietly shutting the drawer and tiptoe out of the room, locking away the horrors as silently as I can. Michael's voice booms from downstairs summoning me. Wiping my tears I sniff, compose myself and head towards him even more desperate than before.