I was sitting on the curb when the blood finally started to drip.
It slid down from my hairline, warm and slow, and soaked into the collar of my shirt. The fabric was already dark in uneven patches—dirt, footprints, something sticky that had dried stiff against my skin. One knee throbbed when I shifted my weight. My ribs protested when I breathed too deeply.
I stayed where I was.
My phone lay in my hand, the screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracks. Half of it was dead. The other half flickered, stubbornly responsive. Enough to make a call.
I dialed the police.
The line connected.
"Emergency services," a woman said. Her voice was calm, neutral. "What's your situation?"
"I'd like to report an assault," I said. "And an illegal eviction."
A brief pause.
"Are you in immediate danger?"
"No. I'm outside."
"Can you state your name?"
"Evelyn Hart."
"And your ID number?"
"EJH-0429-1989."
I could hear typing.
"Who assaulted you, Ms. Hart?"
"My boyfriend," I said. Then, after a second, "And the live-in helper."
"The helper?" she repeated.
"Yes."
The questions kept coming, measured and neutral. I answered them the same way—short, factual, careful not to add anything extra.
At some point, the operator hesitated.
"Can you confirm," she said slowly, "that this is your legal residence?"
"Yes," I said. "It's my name on the lease."
Another silence. Longer this time.
"I'm dispatching officers to your location," she said at last. "Please remain where you are."
"Thank you."
I ended the call.
I didn't move.
The air wasn't cold, but my hands were shaking. Not violently—just enough that I noticed. A deep, sour anger burned somewhere under my ribs, tangled tightly with fear. The two felt indistinguishable, like they'd fused into a single, humming tension in my bones.
Across the street, a car passed without slowing. Somewhere behind me, someone laughed.
I sat there, breathing shallowly, waiting for something—sirens, footsteps, anything—to prove that what had just happened was real.
I lowered the phone.
Just last night, he had been on the phone with me, whispering promises, telling me he loved me.
Today, he wouldn't even meet my eyes.
If anyone ever asks how things went so wrong—
It all started with a short story. One that didn't have an ending.