Abused

​This piece is creepy. I submitted it to a literary magazine, but it was rejected. So, how blog readers, you get to see it for free!

The hair on my arms stands straight up. I hold my breath, afraid to move or make a sound. My heart pounds in my throat. I wonder if this is how a rabbit feels when stalked by a fox.
I hear his raspy breath, the scrape of his shoes on the wooden floor, his slight limp more pronounced when he has been drinking.
“I know you’re in there, you stupid bitch,” his voice slurs. “You can’t hide forever. I’ll find you and you’ll get what you deserve.”
“He’ll kill me this time,” I say silently to myself and look around, desperately, for a weapon. There is nothing useful in my closet hiding place. Nothing sharp. Nothing hard. Just clothes. Not even a shoe to hit him with. Or a phone to call for help.
His steps come closer, closer.
I pray.
Silence.
I let out my breath.
I hear the creak of the bed springs.
I breathe in, exhale and breathe in again.
I count, slowly, to 100.
I hear a snort, then a wall-rattling snore.
I let out my breath again.
I crack open the closet door and peek out at the dark bedroom. I see a man-sized lump on the bed. 
I carefully unfold myself from my hiding place. My mind screams at me to run. Instead, I creep carefully around the squeaky floor board and crawl across the floor telling myself to move slowly, slowly, silently.  At the bedroom door, finally, I run.
And live another day.