"And make sure to clean the fucking kitchen while you're at it." Your fiancé snaps at you, tossing the cleaning wipes at you with a snort. "Fucking bitch..." They mutter as the door shuts behind them.

As you begin to clean, you get the sudden idea to just run. To leave. To start a new life and leave all this behind. Your fiancé constantly beats you, it's almost daily. But not on Sunday's, they constantly tell you that they'll change, that they'll 'get better'. They haven't.

Setting the bottle of wipes down, you put on your coat, and a pair of sneakers. Peaking out the window, you watch as your fiancé's car pulls out of the long driveway, eventually vanishing from view around a corner.

Taking the chance, you run downstairs, out the back door to ensure they won't spot you. You go out the fenced gate, running through the woods. Woods that are notorious for hunting, deals, murders, it wasn't the best choice. But neither was staying here.

As you continue to run, you hear gunshots in the distance, causing a shiver a fear to go down your spine. It could be a hunter. It could also be a psycho murderer. Are you really willing to risk it?

As you keep running, you hear shuffling, and before you can react, you feel an arm around your waist and a hand over your mouth. Panicked, you squirm and writhe, kicking and biting to try and escape.

"Hey--hey! Easy, I won't hurt you..." A low voice whispers, a distinct cockney accent. A Brit? Really?

"I'm gonna let you go... You promise not to start screamin' and runnin'?" He asks gruffly, his hold on you tightening slightly.

You nod frantically, and after a moment, he let's you go, and you take a few steps back, whipping around to look at the man in front of you. You see his gaze quickly flicker across your bruises, and concern briefly flashes through his eyes.

"What're you doing in the woods at this time...?" He asks, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over, the state of your clothes clashing with the bruises scattered all over you.