My name is Rachel Miller, and the night my nose broke was the night my fear finally snapped too.
It started in the kitchen, like it usually did. I was standing in front of the open refrigerator, trying to decide what to cook because Jake didn’t “like leftovers,” when his voice cut through the room.
“Are you stupid or just slow?” he barked. “I’ve been home for twenty minutes. Where’s dinner?”
“I just got off work, Jake. I’m trying—”
He crossed the room in three strides. Before I could move, his hands slammed into my shoulders, smashing my back into the fridge. The magnets rattled to the floor. Then his knee shot up, driving into my face with a disgusting crunch.
