Two hours have passed since I locked myself in the bathroom.             I sit on top of the toilet seat with my thighs pressed to my chest, my hands pushing into the wall, distributing the force between my fingers. I imagine that my hand is a spider climbing the wall, desperately clinging on for dear life.             My thumb lunges up, followed by my pinky. Then each subsequent finger climbs up one at a time. A loud thud comes from apartment door as the doorbell rings out again. The incessant noise becomes unbearable.             Focusing all my energy on my hand’s path up the wall, I begin humming: The itsy-bitsy spider…             The banging and the slurred screams and the doorbell go off once more, it all seems to be getting louder.             Climbed up the water spout -- I sing, raising my voice to counter.             I hear him yell through the steel reinforced apartment door and the marble tile walls that stand between us.             Down came the rain -- I belt out in utter frustration as I begin to let my fingers stumble back down the wall again.             “Stop, stop, stop,” I whisper continually, as my rhythm is abruptly interrupted. Rather than feeling the sadness and need to apologize that usually accompanies this series of events, I clench my jaw tightly. All of the words that I have swallowed for years are now bubbling at the back of my throat. I screech as pure, unadulterated anger spews out of my throat, leaving my vocal cords raw.             The bathroom, being of a limited size, allows me to spread my arms and reach the other wall, so I let both of my hands crawl free on the cool marble. As my other hand migrates to the other wall, I push furiously, as though I am trying to separate the walls. I use this motion to propel myself off of the toilet and out the door, and as I am already out of the door, I hear the click of the lock and the metallic feel in my hands, as though there is a delay between my physical body and my mind.             The steps between the bathroom and the apartment door feel unreal -- as if I am living static. The keys rattle in my hands and the lock clicks twice. As I lean in, awaiting the freedom that I have somehow gathered the courage to pursue, I feel a sharp pain in my left wrist as he charges and lets his coarse fingers inflame my skin. All the while, my knees buckle below me as I swiftly fall backwards, and my face enlights with a pure burning sensation as I endure a blow.             I sway backwards as he drags me back inside.             I pause as I watch the door creak shut, feeling as though we are encumbered by ice as time has frozen to preserve this moment.             I feel the glimmer of hope I thought I saw drain as his grasp tightens.             I let out a blood-curdling scream, hoping for the entire world to hear.             “Help!” I whimper as the door closes behind him.             Slurring his words once more, he says, “Fu… You…”             Before he is able to finish his sentence, he falls forward, directly on me, clutching my wrists firmly. “You… never do that again,” he mumbles in a half-sleepy, half-drunken voice.             My wrists are still ignited in rage, and, possibly, fractured.             His rage seems to have dimmed, probably because he is barely conscious. The scent of alcohol on his breath is stronger than I’ve ever felt it before. There are three open beer bottles still clinking around in the doorway, lying at our feet.             I just stay there. Absolutely frozen. The embrace of his arms feel like an anvil crushing my alveoli, one by one, like little bursting grapes, leaving me with less and less breath.             Breathing in -- 3… 2… 1…             Holding breath -- 2… 1…             Breathing out -- 3… 2… 1…             Repeat.             I just lie there. Waiting patiently. What I wait for, I no longer know. Silence drifts through my body and for a brief second, I feel the first moment of peace that I have felt in days. But the anvils still lay on top of me, and his beer-infused breath reminds me that I must escape.             But I look around, at the plastered holes dancing across the walls like constellations and the trickle of blood on the corner of the bookshelf from when I “fell” and I know I must leave.             But, this is my home. Or at least it was. Home is meant to feel safe and loving. All the safe and loving memories are overshadowed by moments like today, when everything feels hollow.             I stare at the stains on the carpet where my hair lays at this very moment is no longer the result of our first reckless night here, when we popped out the wine and champagne to feel the beautiful tingling in our stomachs, to help our already bubbling butterflies. It is no longer the love we felt in that moment. Instead, it is yet another reminder of the alcohol boiling in his veins, like gasoline to his burning rage.             My eyes glide over the room. I look before me and, look out of the window of the kitchen down the hall. The daylight is receding and everything seems a little bit dimmer. The worldly sky fills with a beautiful blend of teal hues and clouds of light rose -- hues that bring warmth to one’s stomach when experienced with loved ones. But as I see the beauty that lay outside, the details of the room fade away with the receding sun. The polished marmoreal tabletop no longer glistens in the sunlight. The flowers seem to darken and wither.             Before me, I see the shelves that hold our mismatched shoes. To an outsider they could look so casual, merely tossed in after a long day’s work. But they are thrown with anger, tossed aside and forgotten. There are singles because the matching shoes have been flung at my head at one point or another.             The lyrics of “Chasing Cars” play through my head on loop.             If I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world. Oh the irony of those words at this very moment. We are lying here and forgetting the world, but in the worst way imaginable.             As I’m running through the chorus for a sixth time, I hear a pounding on the door.             “Police,” someone grumbles from beyond the door.             I contemplate lying there, a few more moments, wondering if maybe he could change, if we could pretend that this had never happened. I cling to the rough carpet and the smell of a long day, filled with dirt and discomfort. For a moment, I let myself melt. I let myself absorb his heartbeat, and I let myself hope. But I know. There is a reason I got out of the bathroom today. I was searching for -- no -- craving freedom.             And as I begin to rise, I fear his awakening and the terror that may ensue, but he remains frozen, looking almost frail with his eyes ever-so-slightly shut, as though he is moments away from waking from a pleasant dream.             With his arm away, I shuffle forward as I hear another, louder knock accompanied by, “Police, open up.” As I propel myself up from my knees I look back at him with my breath trapped in my lungs, awaiting his rise and my fall. But he remains completely and utterly unconscious.             The world seems as if it is tipsy and swaying around me as I rise to my feet. I open the door and look at the officers, with a glimmer of sadness in my eyes.             For the first time, reality comes crumbling down around me. The bubble that held my secrets, that hid my tears and scars, has forever burst. My body feels as though it is in a different plane than my mind as one of the porcelain police dolls before me begins speaking, breaking the illusion of the game I wish this were.             “Ma’am, we received several noise complaints.”             After watching my stomach inflate as I breathe in. I stare down at my stomach hold my breath, “I would like to report the man on the floor for abuse.”             And I drift.             Past the bright blue sign that read “Police” that illuminate the sky and into police headquarters. Through the hours of meticulously detailing every gruesome encounter I had with him. Through the piles of paperwork. And I drift through the tears. I feel lifeless as tears dripped from this body that I merely inhabited.             As I sit atop a cushioned folding chair, I observe the officers glide past, jangling my keys in their hands as they hope to charge him for disorderly conduct and a DUI.             But that would merely be a diversion, a small hiccup in his life that would be over before it began. He would be free in a matter of weeks. And then, I would have to endure months of trial, that is if I decided to follow through.             The haze breaks and my thoughts dwindle as the officer comes to me and asks if there is anyone I want to call to get me home or if I needed a ride. I think back to the apartment that is not a home, the one that holds no love. The one with drunken stains and pain that I know I cannot go back to.             I pull out my phone and look through my contacts. There are only three that have been dialed in the past months: mom, father, and him.             In that moment, I feel my stomach churn with sorrow, thinking back to the friendships I lost, or never even had, and how I ended up here in the first place.             I want to call my mom, but I know my father would be furious. So I call my father instead.             “Dad… Could you pick me up?”             I tune out his response, feeling the haze settling back in.             “I’m at Mellbrook’s Police Station.”             Maybe things have changed, I let myself believe as I let the world around me blur out.             I stay in this daze until I hear three consecutive honks, I know my father has arrived.             I rise, feeling static buzzing around inside my legs as my limbs begin to weigh me down.             I see his midnight blue Jeep Wrangler standing before me and I drift to the passenger seat door, fling myself into the seat in one swift yet slow motion moment.             I drag myself out of the car and up the steps to the house once we arrive, as if each of             my legs are held down by a ball and chain.             I kiss my mother and sit in the kitchen without another word, feeling incredibly depleted. She sets food before me, but my eyes are fixated on the corner where the ceiling meets two walls. There are merely a few threads of web remaining from the last inhabiting spider. My mind has far past drifted beyond the constraints of my body. I am detached and broken into pieces.             When my eyes finally decide to glance around the room, I see a shard of glass that has fallen out of the trash, reflecting the light on the ceiling. The bread has all been sliced and left out to harden. A few of the fridge magnets lay fragmented on the ground. Everything is slightly in disarray.             As my mom passes, my glazed eyes slip down to her sleeves, which are riding up. I see what I dread the most: her frail skin ignited in hues of yellow, green, and blue mixed with blooming irises. And so my heart wavers and I drift until I eventually find myself sitting back on the floor of the bathroom with my hand slowly climbing up the wall as I sing itsy bitsy spider to drown out all the pain.