The Luna and Her Moon

The air in the cramped, windowless nook under the staircase hung heavy with the stench of stale beer and desperation. Anna traced the peeling paint on the low ceiling with her gaze, her mind a fortress against the assault of the present. Roger’s heavy breathing filled the small space, his calloused hand a creeping horror up her leg.

"One day I'll make you react to my touch, Anna. But I guess until then it'll just be me enjoying it."

She barely registered his slurred words, her focus absolute. Just two more days. The mantra was a lifeline, a fragile promise in the suffocating darkness. She felt the familiar, sickening sting, a signal that his 'hour' had begun. Her parents, undoubtedly, were celebrating their latest carton of beer. But she was already gone, tucked away in the deepest corner of her mind, preparing for a freedom that was almost within reach.