The Bag

The Driver

The black town car idles at the curb, its engine purring like a drowsy predator. Vic’s hand rests on my thigh, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the fresh bruise he left last night—a plum-colored bloom just above my knee, still tender to the touch. His wedding band glints in the streetlight, a cold reminder of the life he’ll return to after this.

“Your stop first,” he says, voice sandpaper-rough from a week of whiskey and whispered sins. His thumb digs into the bruise, punishment and apology in one gesture.

The driver doesn’t meet my eyes in the rearview mirror as I slide out, the leather seat still warm from Vic’s body. The door closes with a soft thud, sealing me into the humid night air that smells of rain and exhaust.

The Shower

My apartment exhales dust and abandonment when I step inside. The air clings to my throat, stale from ten days of neglect. I strip in the bathroom, the mirror fogging as the shower scalds my skin.

The bruises tell a story only we can read:

• Neck: Finger-shaped shadows where he held me against the window, my breath fogging the glass as the city watched.
• Ribs: Fading yellow smudges from the steam room tile, his teeth marks haloed by heat blisters.
• Thighs: Fresh violets blooming where he’d muttered “Mine” between bites, each one deeper than the last.

I scrub until my skin burns raw, but the memories cling like his cologne—smoky sandalwood and regret.

The Laundry

His shirt sits at the bottom of the hamper, stiff with dried sweat and my perfume, the collar still torn from when he’d ripped it off in the shower. I bury it beneath towels, pretending I don’t press it to my face when I transfer the load, inhaling the ghost of his rage.

The pajamas I chose are his least favorite—oversized gray cotton, no lace in sight. A silent rebellion.

The Silence

Three days have passed.

• Day 1: I stare at my silent phone, imagining it ringing. At 3:17 a.m., I press call but hang up before it connects.
• Day 2: I rearrange the pantry, tossing expired spices he’d mocked—cardamom pods like tiny shrunken hearts, cinnamon sticks snapped in half.
• Day 3: I dream of Dubai—hot sand gritting between my teeth, cold sheets stiff with dried blood, a clinic door closing with a pneumatic hiss.

The Bag

He arrives at midnight, knuckles crusted with blood, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like a corpse.

His left eye is a ruined galaxy—swollen shut, the skin mottled purple black around a deep cut that glistens with dried blood. A fresh split bisects his lower lip, deep enough to show teeth when he smirks.

“She knows,” he says, stepping inside. The bag hits the floor with a metallic clatter that shakes the walls. “Found the hotel receipts. The driver talked. She threw me out.”

I cross my arms, hiding the new bite mark under my sleeve—his parting gift the other morning. “And?”

He unzips the bag with a violence that makes me flinch:

• Passports: Mine, his, and a forged one with my face but someone else’s name.
• Cash: Neat stacks of euros and dollars, bound with rubber bands that smell of bank vaults.
• A velvet box: Inside, a diamond ring too large for my finger—his wife’s, I realize.

“We leave tonight,” he says, pulling me close. His breath smells of nicotine and fear, a cocktail I’ve learned to crave. “You and me. Anywhere.”

I trace the split in his lip, tasting iron on my fingertip. “She did this?”

He laughs, bitter. “Threw a decanter. Nailed my eye. Split my lip on the doorframe when she shoved me out.”

The Questions

I grab his wrist, turning his hand to examine the bloodied knuckles—skin split, joints swollen. “And these? You hit her?”

He jerks away. “Wall. After she threw the decanter. Punched it three times.” His fingers tremble as he flexes them, wincing at the popping sound.

“You could’ve broken them,” I snap, pressing an ice pack from the freezer to his hand. “We need to go to the ER. Your eye—”

“It’s fine.”

“You can’t even open it!” I lean closer, the rancid smell of infection hitting me. “If there’s damage to the cornea…”

The Hospital

The fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps as we sit in the ER waiting room. Vic slumps in the plastic chair, hoodie pulled low, while I fill out forms with lies:

• Name: “Vincent Carter” (his alias from the forged passport).
• Injury: “Work accident. Debris flew into eye.”

The nurse eyes his split lip and crusted knuckles but says nothing.

The Diagnosis

“Corneal abrasion,” the doctor announces, shining a light into Vic’s swollen eye. “No retinal damage, but you’ve got a hell of an infection brewing. We’ll need to flush it and start antibiotics.”

Vic grips my hand like a lifeline as they irrigate the wound, yellow pus swirling down the drain.

The Confession

In the parking lot, I light a cigarette with shaking hands. “How many times?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Have you cheated on her before? With others?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Twice before you. Different cities. She never knew.”

“Why’d she take you back then?”

“She didn’t know. Not until now.” His voice cracks. “The driver gave her dates. Locations. Fucking timelines.”

“Will she take you back?”

He stares at the floor. “Doubt it. Not after this.”

The Choice

I walk to the car, the city glowing around us like a circuit board of lies.

“You’d really burn your life down for me?” I ask, pressing my forehead to the cold window.

His arms circle my waist, teeth grazing the scar on my neck. “I already did.”

The diamond ring digs into my palm as he kisses me, a stolen promise.

“We’re not going to runaway yet,” I said. “If we leave, it could cause issues. Plus, she may take you back.”

“I highly doubt it but for now, I’ll stay with you.”