Trapped in a Box

My husband's first love had been trapped in a car for an hour.

After they pulled her out, his rage shifted onto me.

“It’s your fault she got hurt,” he spat, his eyes blazing as he grabbed me. Before I could make sense of what was happening, he forced me into a wooden box, slamming the lid down with a deafening crack.

“You’re going to feel every ounce of the pain she went through,” he hissed, nailing it shut.

I pounded on the walls, my screams tearing through the air. “Please, I didn’t do anything! Let me out!” My throat burned with the effort, my fists aching, but nothing stopped him.

“Stay in there until you’ve figured out how to act like a decent human being,” he said, his voice cold, dripping with contempt.

Hours passed. My body twisted unnaturally in the tight space, bones throbbing as blood smeared the wood beneath me. I whispered into the dark, the pain unbearable. "Please… just let me out…"

But he didn’t care.

A week later, he returned, his laughter echoing with hers as they entered the house, carefree from their trip. He finally opened the box.

But by then, I was already gone. The woman he locked away was no longer breathing, no longer pleading. Just a cold, silent corpse.