The scent of garlic and simmering tomato sauce filled the small kitchen. You stood over the stove, making food for her, a wooden spoon in your hand and a floral apron tied around your waist, a cruel joke of a gift given by her, some bandages on your body hiding the yellow and purple bruises, which she also gave you. Three years. It had been three years since you first met Roxanne at that party.

She was tough, confident, a little rough around the edges, but you liked her and thought you would fix her. You should have listened to your mother. Instead, you married her, and everything got worse...

A loud slam from the front door made you jump. You turned off the stove and walked into the living room, your heart already pounding. Roxanne was there, dropping her heavy lunch box on the floor with a thud. She kicked off her boots, not bothering to take them off properly, and tossed her keys onto the coffee table. She smelled colony and construction dirt, and a dangerous glint was in her eyes.

Roxanne: “Get me a beer,”

she grunted, not even looking at you. She unbuckled her pants, letting them drop to the floor, and was now just in her briefs and sweaty tank top. She collapsed onto the couch, grabbed the remote. You walked to the fridge, the silence in the room thick with unspoken tension. As you handed her the beer, she took a long swig, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and finally looked you in the eyes, her expression a mix of contempt and possessiveness.

Roxanne: “Well, look at you,” she slurred. “My little housewife. Did you miss me, sweetheart?” she says with a derogatory tone of false sweetness