Untethered by Olivia Salter

Untethered

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 554

I can't remember the last time I didn't feel small. Trapped between the walls of his gaze, his voice. It wasn’t always this way—or was it? I can’t tell anymore. Memories slip through my fingers, slick with the grease of his lies. He loves me, doesn’t he? Or is that just what I tell myself when his words carve holes into me, leaving me torn and empty?

The sink is full of dishes again. My fault, he said, last night when the air was sharp between us. “If you weren’t so lazy, maybe this place would feel like home,” he muttered, half under his breath but loud enough to hear. I stood there, blinking at the cracked ceiling, willing myself not to cry. I don’t cry anymore. Not in front of him. He hates that. “So dramatic,” he always says, waving me off like a fly.

I used to love the sound of his voice. Deep, steady, like the hum of the ocean. Now, it’s the tide dragging me under, pulling me further from myself. I don’t know who I am anymore? My mother used to say I had a fire in me. A spark that couldn’t be dimmed. But he found it, snuffed it out with every quiet insult, every time he laughed at my dreams. “You’re not that special,” he said once, and I laughed too, pretending it didn’t hurt. But it did. God, it did.

The phone buzzes on the counter. His name flashes on the screen. My stomach twists. Did I forget something? Did I say something wrong? I stare at the phone until it stops vibrating, leaving a thin film of silence that feels heavier than the buzzing. I don’t want to hear his voice right now.

Or ever again.

The thought of him makes me pause. Never again. The words feel foreign, like a language I once spoke fluently but forgot. What would it be like, I wonder, to never hear his voice again? To not feel the weight of his expectations pressing on my chest? The thought is terrifying. And exhilarating.

The mirror in the bathroom is cracked, a thin spiderweb of lines splitting my reflection. It happened months ago, during one of his tantrums. He said it wasn’t his fault. “You pushed me,” he said, like his fists were mine, like his rage belonged to anyone but him. I run my fingers over the crack, watching my fractured self stare back at me. Who is she?

She doesn’t look like someone who belongs to anyone. Not anymore.

The door opens downstairs, and I hear his footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. My heart jumps, instinctively. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe. He calls my name, and the sound of it makes my skin crawl. How did three syllables become a weapon?

I don’t answer.

The footsteps grow louder, and I feel my body shrink, curling inward like a dying flower. But then, something shifts. A whisper, barely audible, but insistent. Leave. The word echoes in my mind, gaining strength. Leave. Leave. Leave.

I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a bag packed. But I have legs that can carry me, a heart that still beats, and hands that can open doors.

When he looks for me, I’ll be gone. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find myself again.