text: Escape Short fictional story - set in London 2012. I flung my shoes down the stairs instinctively, like a target that I had to reach, a bullseye, and my body an arrow, right to base where the front door was. The flat was small and confined as it was, and while inside, we were always within a few easy steps of each other. I was suddenly aware of the small space between us and that every second of hesitation on my part would fatally reduce my chances of escape. He would humiliate me, he would trap me, and another part of me would be taken and kept there, perhaps forever. All I had to do was make it to my shoes at the base of the stairs, to the front door, and on to the safe street, filled with couples, mums and dads with their infant children, happily enjoying the weekend, and unseasonably good weather, still young enough to have complete faith that nothing bad could happen to me in front of adults, they would stop him if they had to, I just had to get myself there. I half ran and half threw my self down the stairs, every step unsteady, filled with adrenaline, focused on retrieving my shoes and getting out of there. I nearly really did trip over my legs, nearly betraying myself with those impossibly large strides that my body was taking. I reached the base of the stairs, my brown hands, as if in a natural transformation, turned into eagle-like golden talons, cleanly sweeping through the air, ready to scoop up the shoes, swooping in low to claim the prize catch. I faltered as I stood there, in wonder that I had done it, this time it had worked. I had passed, unscathed, as I thought at the time. Only a few minutes ago I had thought the window was my only escape. This simple victory spread a wickedly delicious sensation through my body. But not a moment to waste. The prize was mine and in that second of brief victory I inadvertently and dreadfully turned my head to him, my hand on the latch now, no longer the triumphant eagle but a hunted and terrified girl. He had reached the middle of the staircase, for a brief second we made eye contact and he bellowed at me in a deep snarling voice, sending volts of fear through me “Come back here”, eyes bulging in rage at the thought of me attempting to make an escape, willing me with his complete and pure rage to paralyse me on the spot. I almost froze. But - I tore my eyes away from that unrelenting dark passage and opened the front door, letting the cold crisp air intoxicate me and fill me with a simple and fresh joy - I had made it! I won! I slipped into my shoes and bolted down the street, passing artisanal bakeries, a restaurant offering delicately roasted free range meats, an assortment of quirky cafes where middle class white people seemed to congregate on weekends, a respite from the usual offerings and busy high streets of inner London. Not for a moment, did I take in the possibly startled expressions of the passerby’s at my sudden bursting out and departure on that relatively quiet early afternoon. Freedom. For now.