When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

The invisible leash

Myra

We halted in front of my door. The night, his words embebeded in me. There is no escape from this. 

"Wh-where is my car?" I asked hesitantly, voice barely above a whisper. He threw the keys in the woods and dragged me out. He has not let me out for thirty six hours almost. God knows what he did with my car. My car was the one thing that gave me a sliver of control.

"Its in the repair." he added, finally without sparing me a glance. "I got the lock changed. I will have send someone to bring it to Cat. You are not driving anymore" he said with terrifying calm.

His words dropped like iron weights in my stomach.

My heart sank. Of course. He wouldn't let it go.

"Didn't you punish me enough?" I muttered, unable to meet his eyes.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching white. "You think?"

I flinched. The air grew thinner.

"How–how will I commute?" I asked, weakly.

"Walk" he said coldly.

Then his voice lowered, a final verdict carved in stone. "Red, I'm telling you this for the last time—you will not drive again. If I find out that you—"

"I won't," I blurted, cutting him off. His threats were etched in my bones now.
God, you are such a scared, broken thing.

He didn't respond. Just stepped out. So did I.

As soon as we entered, my mother rushed toward me, worry lining her face.

"Myra, are you okay, love?"

She pulled me into a hug, her warmth so foreign now it almost burned.

"Marc told me about your accident," she added gently.

I nodded, forcing a tired smile, complying with his lie like a well-trained puppet.

"I'm alright, Mom," I murmured.

"You shouldn't have left like this, Myra. I was so worried," she said, guiding us to the couch. She brought out two mugs of coffee, her hands shaking just a little.

"Anyway... did you two make up now?" she asked, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips—so clueless, so heartbreakingly oblivious.

She didn't see what was happening. Didn't see the leash wrapped around my neck, the way he was tightening it day by day.

"Mom—" I started, the truth clawing at my throat.

I wanted to tell her.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted her to know that the memory she clings to—kids playing, a harmless tumble from the swing—that wasn't what happened.
He did that to me.
He hurt me. Dislocated my wrist.

I didn't run because I was angry at her. I ran becuase I wanted to escape, wanted the air to breathe. 

I want to tell Mom. The words sit on the edge of my tongue every time I look at her, but they never make it out. Because... what's the point?

She thinks Marcus is a good thing in my life. A blessing. A man who "saved" me. She doesn't see the cracks in the illusion—she sees a powerful, well-spoken Mayor who brings her daughter home and smiles politely. He plays the part so well, even I forget sometimes. And to her, letting me marry a Clayton isn't just pride—it's penance. Her way of making up for all those years she wasn't there. For every recital she missed, every phone call she ignored, every night I cried alone and told myself she loves me more than she loves alcohol.