Not My Sanctuary
written by: Arvilla Fee
18 hours. That’s all I have. If I’m to do this, I do it now. I try to move slowly, deliberately. Try to think about each item that goes into my suitcase, backpack, and purse. Only the necessities, I tell myself. Nothing more.
Attempting to swallow the lump in my throat, I look through each room one more time. The gauzy white curtains above our teal-colored sofa. The oak coffee table with scattered craft magazines. The bookcase that holds our favorite novels. The kitchen table with its rattan placemats. The coffee maker where I stood for 943 mornings making coffee. Everything’s the same, but different.
Absent—the looks of admiration. Absent—the good morning hugs. Absent—the sultry nights, legs entwined upon crisp, powder-blue sheets. They say hindsight is 20/20, and the if onlys plague every waking minute of my days. How is it possible to know someone and yet not know him at all? How is it possible to go from bouquets to bruises in less than three years?
I hoist my backpack and purse onto my shoulder and grab my suitcase. I’ve left the house key on the bar, so the final click of this lock means no turning back. I try to picture Nicolas returning from his brief, overnight business trip tomorrow morning. The way he’ll turn his own key in the door. The way he’ll call out my name. The way he’ll search room-to-room. The way his face will turn varying degrees of red until it’s almost purple.
I shudder, softly close the door, then make my way to my car. When I was little, I always envisioned my grown-up home being a place of peace. A place to which I could return after a long day at work, indulge in a luxurious bath, light some candles, sway to the music in my head. When asked, What do you want to be when you grow up, no one ever says, A victim.
- Not My Sanctuary - January 15, 2026
- Night Games - April 15, 2025
- Ode to Autumn - November 30, 2024
