Only For The Professor's Pleasure

The night I decided to run away, I was lying on the cold floor, staring blankly at the ceiling and wondering how my life had come to this.

My hand moved before I could stop it, landing on my burning cheek and rubbing. My scalp throbbed, and every breath felt like it had to fight its way out of my chest. I could still smell him in the air—alcohol, sweat, and something sour I had stopped trying to name.

Melvin had stumbled in close to midnight, banging the door against the wall as usual. I had been reading a magazine at the small dining table, trying to ignore the clock, trying to pretend I didn’t know what was coming.

“You think you’re better than me?” he had slurred, pointing at my magazine. “All this reading. All these degrees. All this grammar.”

“I never said that,” I had replied quietly.

That was enough to have him irked.

He had grabbed my hair and dragged me off the chair so fast I didn’t even scream at first. My body hit the floor hard. In my fear, I begged him to stop. I always begged, and I hated that I begged at all.

“Melvin, please. Leave me alone,” I had cried.

My pleas fell on deaf ears.

By the time he passed out on the couch, I was shaking so badly I could barely stand. I had crawled to the kitchen, pressed my back against the cabinet, and tried to breathe.

That was when something inside me shifted.

I had endured this for two years. Two years of broken promises. Two years of stolen money. Two years of apologies that sounded so real the next morning. He used to be different—refreshingly different. But that was before the gambling, the drugs and the drinking swallowed him whole.

I used to be different too.

I was a woman with a master’s degree. I had dreams. I had plans. I was supposed to lecture in big halls, publish research, travel for conferences. I was not supposed to hide money under a floorboard and pray my fiancé didn’t find it.

But that night, as I lay on the kitchen floor, something became clear.

If I stayed one more day here, I would not survive this life. And so, by the time the sun rose, I had made my decision.

***

The next morning, I acted like nothing had happened. Melvin woke up groaning, holding his head like he was the victim.

“Coffee,” he muttered. “Please.”

I walked out of the bedroom and returned in about twenty minutes. I placed the mug in front of him, my hands steady even though my heart was racing.

“You heading out today?” I asked softly.

“Yeah. Meeting the guys.”

I was so sure “the guys” meant gambling, drinking and every other thing he did in the hours before he returned.

“Okay,” I said. “Be careful.”

He didn’t look at me when he left. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud.

I waited.

I stood in the middle of the living room, counting slowly to sixty. Then to a hundred. When I was sure he wouldn’t come back for forgotten keys or his wallet, I dashed inside and dropped to my knees near the bedroom wall.

My hands trembled as I lifted the loose floorboard.

The envelope was still there.

I pulled it out and held it to my chest for a second—the proof of my weeks of skipping meals, weeks of hiding small amounts of cash from grocery money, and the weeks where all I did was live in fear.

I opened it quickly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Tears blurred my vision as I packed. I didn’t take much. Just clothes, my certificates, my passport, and a small framed photo of my parents. I left behind the ring Melvin had given me. It meant nothing now.

When I zipped the suitcase shut, my heart pounded so loudly I could hear it.

I didn’t allow myself to think too much. I took my bags to the door downstairs and very quietly, I stepped out of that house and did not look back.

***

“We're here, ma'am,” the cab driver said, startling me as he stared at me via the rear view mirror.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, slowly letting myself revert to reality.

I was fortunate to get there in time to meet the last of the tickets for that morning. I bought a ticket for the first bus leaving Havenwood. I didn’t have a destination yet, but it didn't matter as long as it was far.

When the bus started moving, I finally let myself cry, the tears rolling down my cheeks in trickles. It wasn’t the quiet tears I used to shed in the bathroom each time I was hurt by Melvin. This was different. It was grief and relief mixed together. Finally, I was leaving behind the man I once planned to marry. The man who had held my hand under the stars and promised me a good life. But I was also leaving behind the fear that came with being with him.

I pressed my forehead against the window and whispered, “I'm not going back there.”

The journey felt endless. By the time we reached New York, it was already night. The city lights glowed like a thousand tiny stars on earth. I stepped off the bus with one suitcase and a heart full of uncertainty.

New York was loud, alive. It didn’t care who I was or where I came from. In a strange way, that comforted me.

The first night, I couldn’t afford a hotel. I sat in a twenty-four-hour diner, nursing one cup of coffee for hours. The waitress gave me a tired look but said nothing.

The second night was harder. My money would not last long. I walked into small hostels and offices and asked about vacancies. Most were full.

By the third day, exhaustion settled into my bones.

But that was when I met Anya.