Aida stood in the kitchen, reheating soup she had no intention of eating. The microwave hummed as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. Her phone glowed on the counter: 8:03 p.m.
He'd said six.
She exhaled slowly and told herself she was being dramatic. Julius had important meetings. Julius had clients. Julius had a life that didn't orbit around dinner at home.
Eight years of this.
Her phone buzzed.
Amanda: Hi Aida, school sent another reminder. Just letting you know, help me remind Julius! 💕
Aida closed her eyes. $538.54 due by Friday.
She'd pay it. She always did. And Julius would call his mother on Saturday and say, "I handled Amanda's fees." His mother would coo and tell her friends that her son was so responsible, so generous.
No one ever asked where Aida's salary went.
The microwave beeped. She stared at the bowl of soup, steam curling into the light, and felt something close to hatred.
Not for Julius.
For herself.
For still hoping.
The door clicked open at eleven.
Aida's head jerked up from the couch. She stood, smoothing her hands over her jeans.
"You're awake," Julius said, as if her consciousness were an inconvenience.
"I waited for you." She moved toward him. "Dinner's ready. I just need to reheat it."
He stepped inside. Tailored jacket, smooth dark skin, the kind of handsome that made strangers smile at him. The kind that made her coworkers ask, How did you land him?
"You didn't have to do that," he said, loosening his collar.
"I wanted to."
He set his phone down. Keys clinked in the bowl by the door.
"You always do this," he said.
"Do what?"
"Wait up. Like I'm supposed to feel guilty."
Her throat tightened. "I just wanted us to eat together."
"You make everything sound like a moral issue, Aida."
"I'm not…"
"You are." He shrugged off his jacket. "You're exhausting."
The word landed like a slap. She turned toward the kitchen, gripping the counter.
"I miss you," she said quietly as if it will remind him how to love a wife.
He sighed. "You're being emotional again."
"I'm being honest."
"Same thing with you."
She heard him moving behind her. Then she smelled it, perfume. Women's perfume.
"You smell different," she said.
He stopped. "Different how?"
"Like perfume."
A low chuckle. "You imagine things when you're tired."
"I'm not imagining it."
"Aida. Don't start."
She turned to face him. "I'm just asking where you were."
"Out."
"With who?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
He stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back.
"No," he said softly. "It doesn't."
Her chest ached. "I had a rough day."
"You always do."
"That's not fair…"
"You're the one who insists on working yourself to death. Don't complain about it now."
"I'm not complaining." Amanda's tuition fee is due."
His jaw tightened.
She should have stopped. But exhaustion made her reckless.
"I covered the mortgage. And the car insurance."
"You're listing," he said coldly. "You should be happy that you're useful."
"I'm just overwhelmed."
"You're always overwhelmed. The world keeps spinning."
"I just need support…"
"Support for what? Living comfortably?"
"That's not…"
"You sound ungrateful."
Her eyes burned. "Ungrateful? I'm your wife."
"And you're exhausting me." He turned toward the bedroom. "I'm taking a shower."
She stood frozen, heart hammering. The anger rising in her chest felt dangerous.
"Wait."
He paused, hand on the doorframe. Didn't turn around.
"I told you last week how alone I feel," she said, voice shaking. "You said it was nothing."
"Because it was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing to me."
"Well." He glanced back. "That's your burden, not mine."
Something inside her snapped.
She crossed the kitchen. Not running. Not aggressive. Just closing the distance because she needed him to see her.
"Julius, please…"
She reached for him.
His palm slammed into her chest.
The back of her head cracked against the marble counter.
White light exploded behind her eyes. Then his face, already rearranging into blame.
"Don't," he snapped. "Don't push me."
She coughed, tasting copper. "I wasn't pushing."
"You were. You always provoke me, Aida."
Pain burst where her spine had met the counter's edge. She slid down slowly until she hit the floor, knees folding, back against the cabinet.
Above her, Julius rubbed his face.
"This is why I hate coming home," he muttered.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Good."
He walked away. The bedroom door closed. The shower hissed to life.
She sat on the cold floor, breathing shallow and small in the too-bright kitchen.
Her hands started trembling.
The overhead light flickered.
No. Not the light.
Her vision.
It started at the edges—soft at first, like someone had smudged her sight. Then the brightness began to bleed, colors running like wet paint.
No. Not now.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressed her forehead against her knees. The cold floor. The throb in her skull. The metallic taste in her mouth.
It didn't work.
It never worked.
Blood.
Everywhere.
White tiles drowning beneath spreading red. The scent crashed into her, copper and salt. It wasn't real. She knew it wasn't real. But her pulse kicked into a gallop, breath coming fast and shallow.
A scream echoed, distant, muffled, underwater.
The image flickered like a scratched film. Hands. Movement. Red spreading in rivers, pooling in grout lines, too much blood, far too much…
Her chest seized. She couldn't breathe. The walls pressed in and she was drowning in air and the scream wouldn't stop, God the scream…
A door slammed.
The vision shattered.
Aida gasped. The kitchen snapped back, white tiles, clean and dry. Overhead light steady. The faint smell of soup.
No blood.
No screaming.
She stared at her hands.
Clean. Always clean.
It happened every time Julius hurt her. A shove, a slap, a grabbed wrist. The vision came. Blood and screaming and white tiles and terror that left her shaking for hours.
She pressed her forehead against her knees, counting breaths until the trembling subsided.
The shower shut off.
Footsteps in the hallway. A pause.
"You still down there?" Julius's voice, almost gentle now.
She didn't answer.
He sighed. "I'll take the bed. You take the couch."
His footsteps retreated. The bedroom door clicked shut.
Aida sat in the silence, staring at the oven door's reflection. A woman stared back—light brown skin, soft features, eyes too wide. Successful, people said. Beautiful.
A woman sitting on a kitchen floor, haunted by visions she understood too well.
Tomorrow, Julius would apologize. Would say he didn't mean it. Would buy flowers.
Tomorrow, she would cover the bruises and smile and pretend.
But tonight…
Tonight she sat in the ruins of her marriage, haunted by blood only she could see, and wondered how much longer she could keep the past buried.
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
She closed her eyes.
And tried not to remember whose blood it was.