Bloodied Roots
The front door slammed shut. She shivered as she glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside her. Five past eleven in the evening, the latest he had got home so far this week. The potent scent of alcohol wafted into the plain, grey living room where she sat on the sofa’s edge, twisting her wedding ring around her finger to stop her hands from shaking. As they locked eyes, she jumped up and held her breath.