knife to her throat

Light dies. Not me. I’m just trying to save her. I don’t want to watch her burn— Burn in a fire she never lit. She said NO. But he said, “Just a little.” She cried. Not loud. Just silently. While he broke her like silence was permission. Three weeks. Pregnant. With something that feels like poison in her belly. The man won’t even look at her now. Won’t answer. Won’t care. She wants it gone. But her pockets are empty. Her hope? Shattered. Her brother’s best friend. The one who called her “like a sister.” The one who took her. Ghosted her. Then came back— Not as a friend. But as a nightmare that walks and breathes. She was a victim before. This time? She didn’t fight. She just gave up. She tells him. “I want to get rid of it.” That’s her knife at her throat. Not a threat— a desperate scream. He says, “Don’t test me.” She holds the knife to her womb. To her throat. Because if she has to carry that reminder, if she has to live with his baby, then maybe it’s better if neither of them live. She can’t speak out. Too scared to be shamed. Too scared to be blamed. She’s heard the whispers: “She asked for it.” “She wanted it.” “She’s lying.” Lies. That bite like teeth. That