The Caged Smile — Part 8

The smell of smoke and iron lingered in the air.

The gun trembled in her hand. Her knees were weak, and the moment felt suspended in time. He lay on the floor, writhing, clutching the bleeding wound in his side. His breathing came in wet, staggered gasps.

The rainstorm outside beat against the windows like a warning drum. The thunder growled like something alive, echoing her panic.

She had shot him.

But it wasn't over.

The sirens came quickly. Detective Thakur had a team on standby. When the door burst open and armed officers poured into the room, she didn't even flinch. She was numb. The gun slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

He was still conscious when they restrained him. Bloody. Smiling.

"She loves me," he whispered, delirious. "She'll always love me."

They hauled him away. The floor was stained red where he'd lain.

She sat on the couch, unmoving, a ghost in her own home.

The news made headlines the next morning. Her face wasn't shown, but the story was clear: Survivor shoots alleged captor. Twisted romance ends in blood.

They didn't know the half of it.

She spent hours in the interrogation room, reliving everything. Again. And again. The smells. The bruises. The way he'd touched her hair while apologizing for breaking her rib. How he'd read poetry to her while her ankle was chained to the radiator.

How he cried after hitting her.

How he whispered, "You're my only light."

He survived surgery. Stable but heavily medicated. Placed under suicide watch.

She didn't care.

Or she told herself she didn't.

But in the nights that followed, she dreamed of him bleeding. Calling her name. Reaching for her like a drowning man.

She woke each time gasping for air, hands shaking.

The court proceedings began.

She was the star witness. The media hounded her despite efforts to protect her identity. They painted her as either a victim or a temptress. No in-between. No understanding.

In court, he sat in a wheelchair. Frail. Bandaged.

He looked at her every chance he got.

She didn't look back.

But one day, she received a letter. Smuggled from inside the facility.

It was written in the messy scrawl she remembered from high school.

"You once said I was the only one who ever made you feel seen. You saved me, even when I was broken. I still dream of you. I still wait for your voice. If you hate me, I understand. But please, let me die knowing you once meant it when you held my hand."

She read it three times.

She burned it.

Therapy became harder after that.

Not easier.

"Why do you think part of you misses him?" her therapist asked gently.

She wanted to scream.

"Because I don’t know who I am without the pain."

She relapsed.

The alcohol. The razor. The bathtub.

But this time, she called for help.

She didn't want to die. Not really.

She just wanted to stop being a canvas for his fingerprints.

Months passed.

The trial ended. Guilty.

Life sentence.

No parole.

She didn't attend the final hearing. She was too tired.

One night, she sat on her rooftop. The city lights flickered below like distant stars. The cold bit at her skin, but she didn’t move.

And she said it out loud for the first time:

"I loved him. And he destroyed me."

The wind carried it away.

She didn't cry.

She didn't break.

She just sat.

Alive.

Free?

She wasn't sure.

But it was a start.

End of Part 8