Hell Has No Home

*Isabella lives in a house that was supposed to be a lifeline. Instead, it became a theatre of cruelty. Trapped by contracts, loyalty, and the one creature who never betrayed her—her dog Mid-Knight—she endures emotional warfare with quiet defiance. In a world where love becomes a trap and freedom demands betrayal, Isabella learns that hell isn’t a place. It’s a performance. And it has no home.*

Mid-Knight whimpered.

Isabella didn’t move.

She stood at the kitchen bench, hands deep in a bowl of boiled chicken and rice, mixing CBD oil through it with the back of a spoon. His ears were flaring again—spring always did this to him. Red, raw, sensitive to touch. He’d scratch until they bled if she didn’t intervene.

Evelyn knew this. She’d been told. But still, she ruffled his ears like he was a plush toy, then acted surprised when he growled.

From the bench to the kettle was maybe four metres. That’s how far Isabella stood when Evelyn turned and charged at her.

“Do you not want me to touch him?” Evelyn demanded, voice sharp, eyes gleaming with the thrill of confrontation.

Isabella didn’t look up. “I didn’t say anything, Evelyn.”

She kept stirring. The smell of chicken rose like steam off her restraint.

Evelyn stepped closer. “You don’t like me, do you?”

Isabella bit her lip. “I didn’t say that either.”

Evelyn’s face twisted. “I don’t want you here. You need to leave. Get your things and get out.” Spit flew from her mouth. Her eyes squished into wrinkles. Her nostrils flared.

“Please leave me alone,” Isabella said, voice low, trying to ignore the tantrum—the monthly penalty for surviving in this house of hell.

Evelyn’s voice turned sing-song, childlike. “I don’t have to. It’s my house. I can do whatever I want. And what can you do? Nothing.”

She followed Isabella through the living room, the hallway, the laundry, circled back to the kitchen, then down the corridor again. Isabella begged her to stop, to get out of her face. Evelyn smirked. “I’m not in your face,” she snapped, standing nose-to-nose.

Every step was a taunt. Every breath a dare. Every attempt to ignore her came with Evelyn’s wrath exploding louder.

Isabella ducked into Husani’s room—her former husband, now just a passive witness to the slow erosion of her dignity.

“Get your mother away from me,” Isabella begged.

Husani put his head down. Out of sight.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Evelyn’s performance like it was a rerun.

Isabella turned to him, voice cracking. “Are you my friend at all?”

“Yes,” he said. Then louder: “Don’t drag me into it.”

Her chest tightened. Her face fought not to release tears. “This is the same shit as when we were married. She’s been cruel to me for fifteen years and you’ve done nothing.”

Evelyn laughed. “You have nowhere else to go.”

Isabella’s voice sharpened. “Give me my $6,000 back and I’ll leave.”

“No,” Evelyn said, grinning.

“I paid to live here,” Isabella said. “Unless you give me my money, I’m staying until my contract is up. I won’t pay twice to stay somewhere else.”

Evelyn cackled. “You need me.”

“No,” Isabella said. “I need my money.”

Evelyn kept laughing, kept circling like a schoolyard bully on monkey bars.

Isabella looked at her and said, “I get why your husband not only cheated but walked out on you.”

Evelyn’s face snapped into rage. “Get out.”

Isabella didn’t move. “For a teacher and former business owner, you seem to lack the understanding of a legal contract.”

Evelyn switched tactics. “You have no family.”

Isabella nodded. “You’re right. That’s all you’ve got.”

Then she added, “But at least my husband likes me.”

Evelyn froze. “So you are saying my son doesn’t like me?”

Isabella looked her dead in the eye. “As much as you’d like to fuck your son, I said my husband. Because Husani is my husband. And Husani likes me. Your husband went to his deathbed forsaking you. And I am just saying, frankly, I get it.”

Evelyn’s face contorted. She stepped closer. “Hit me,” she said. “So I can report you for elder abuse.”

Isabella didn’t move.

Evelyn was in her face now. Every wrinkle, every drooping sag, every pore visible in 4K. Her breath was sour. Her eyes gleamed with malice. She wanted a reaction. She wanted bruises. She wanted proof.

Instead,

Isabella lit a cigarette.

She inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill her lungs, then exhaled directly into Evelyn’s face. The smoke curled around her like a veil of defiance. Evelyn blinked, coughed, but didn’t step back.

“If you’re so bored,” Isabella said, voice low, “why don’t you go make a friend instead of trying to stir me up and be a cunt?”

Evelyn didn’t move. She stood there, trying to tower over Isabella despite being nearly a foot shorter. Isabella was 5’11”, built from years of working out despite her disability. Evelyn was 4’9”, brittle and bitter. She wanted to provoke. She wanted to win. But Isabella wouldn’t take the bait.

“My freedom,, such as it is” Isabella said, “is worth more than your performance.”

Evelyn stormed out.

Later, Evelyn returned while Isabella was watching a movie with Husani, trying to calm down.

“Oh, it must be so hard for you,” Evelyn said, voice syrupy.

Isabella picked up her phone and hit record. Evelyn faltered. Instant stage fright. Her cruelty didn’t play well when someone else was watching.

Isabella didn’t feel victorious.

She felt shattered.

Exhausted.

Spent.

She fed Mid-Knight, then sat on the floor beside him. He pressed his head into her lap. She stroked his ears gently, careful not to touch the raw spots. She dipped clean cotton cloths into warm salt water, dabbed them with antiseptic, dried them with care. Then she slipped little socks onto his paws. He used to hate them. Now he let her. He knew they helped.

She gave him a treat, kissed his snout, whispered, “You’re my knight. My shining armour.”

He nuzzled his wet nose into her hand, then leaned into her as she fixed his ears.

She remembered the first day in Evelyn’s house. The lavender scent. The too-wide smile. The contract signed with trembling fingers. She’d been grateful. She’d been drowning. She’d thought maybe this was a lifeline.

It wasn’t.

Evelyn had hated her from the start. Fifteen years of loathing, sharpened by emotional incest—the way Evelyn clung to Husani like he was a replacement for the husband who left her. Isabella saw it. Felt it. Was punished for it.

She baked to cope. Banana bread, lemon slices, chocolate chip cookies. Evelyn stole them. Helped herself to Isabella’s things—from snacks to coffee, her food, her peace.

One day, Isabella made edibles. Evelyn snuck them, and not long after became sweaty and sick, shaking and unstable—physically, not just mentally.

Isabella smirked. Had she not taken what wasn’t hers, she wouldn’t have had to experience the consequences.

Mid-Knight had laid beside her through it all. He didn’t flinch when she screamed. He didn’t leave when she couldn’t walk. He didn’t judge when she stopped showering. He was her knight. Her witness. Her only softness.

She tried to talk to Husani. He was emotionally flattened. Under Evelyn’s thumb. She saw it. Hated it. Mourned the man he used to be.

“You used to care for me,” she said once. “Now you just watch me drown.”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t ask again.

She texted her uncle Blake.

> Isabella: Omfg… I’m so sick of getting kicked out… this cunt aye…

> Blake: Fucking really? That’s pretty fucked up.

> Isabella: I would’ve moved in with you years ago, but I can’t leave my dog… he’s been there through everything… all I had… all I have… the biggest and only consistency… and I hate that I wait for him to die…

> Blake: Don’t be sorry. I’m always here to listen to you. I wish there was a way I could help. I will ALWAYS be here for you x

> Isabella: I appreciate you, unc. I’m really grateful I have you.

She put her phone down.

She looked at Mid-Knight.

She whispered, “I’m not waiting for things to get better. I’m waiting for them to end.”

She didn’t dream of escape anymore.

She dreamed of endings. Quiet ones. Ones where Mid-Knight died peacefully in his sleep and she could finally go. Not because she wanted him gone. But because she couldn’t leave him behind. Not like everyone else had left her.

She breathed. But she didn’t live.

Not anymore.

Needing to still care for Mid-Knight, Isabella sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, bowl of warm salt water balanced between her knees, cotton cloths stacked like offerings beside her.

Mid-Knight lay close, ears twitching, head shaking from the flare-up, his body restless but alert. He watched her, head tilted—not confused, not curious, but tuned in. Like he already knew what she was about to do.

She dipped the cloth, squeezed it out, and pressed it gently to the raw skin. He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head again, that little sideways lean he did when he was syncing with her mood. She didn’t need to speak. He was already listening.

“I know, bubba,” she whispered, voice low and cracked. “I know.”

She moved in slow circles, cleaning the flare like she was wiping grief off a wound. He stayed still, eyes locked on her, ears flicking only when she shifted. She dabbed antiseptic with her pinky, blew on it like she used to blow on scraped knees when she was still somebody’s mum. Then she dried the ear, soft and careful, like she was afraid to erase him.

The socks came next. He used to fight her on those. Used to chew them off, paw at them like betrayal. Now he just lifted each paw, one at a time, offering them like trust. She slid the socks on, gave him a treat, kissed his snout.

“You’re my knight,” she said. “My shining armour.”

He tilted his head again, slow and deliberate, like he was saying I know.

Like he was saying I’ve got you too.

Sixteen hours later, Isabella woke to the sound of dripping.

Not the tap—she checked. The kitchen was still, the sink dry. It was rain. Slow, deliberate. Twenty-six days of spring sunshine, and now the sky cracked open like it couldn’t hold itself together anymore.

She stood at the window, watching droplets bead and slide down the glass like they were trying to escape. The storm didn’t rage—it sulked. Sunshine yesterday. Storm today. It mirrored her insides: dread, numbness, dread again. The house was a pressure system. She was the one absorbing it.

She couldn’t leave. Husani had threatened to kill himself if she did. No rentals would take Mid-Knight. No shelters. No friends with spare rooms. And when rooms became available, she wouldn’t go without him. He wasn’t just a dog. He was her lifeline. Her strength. Her only softness. Leaving him would be like cutting off her own oxygen.

So she stayed.

Because love, sometimes, is a trap you choose.

She moved through the kitchen. Evelyn was already there, stirring coffee like it was any other morning. Like she hadn’t tried to evict her with venom and glee less than a day ago. Isabella had her phone recording—learned that trick after too many mornings where reality got rewritten. Evelyn shrank when the lens was on. But even that felt like theatre now. A performance for an audience that never showed up.

“Good morning,” Evelyn said, soft and sweet. Like she hadn’t twisted the knife the day before. Like she hadn’t smiled while doing it.

Isabella’s stomach knotted. Her throat tightened. She said “hello,” but it came out like surrender. Like she was apologising for still being there.

That voice—angelic, breathy, rehearsed—made her skin crawl. It was the same tone Evelyn used with neighbours, with shopkeepers, with anyone who might believe she was just a sweet old lady. The kind who bakes. The kind who smiles. The kind who couldn’t possibly be cruel.

But Isabella knew better.

She’d lived it.

She’d seen the way Evelyn’s eyes gleamed when she cornered her. The way she locked doors, stole food, whispered threats with a smile. The cruelty wasn’t clumsy—it was curated. And the sweetness? That was the costume. The alibi. The reason no one believed Isabella when she tried to speak.

Eight hours later, the house was silent.

Casper, Evelyn’s dog, was gone.

The night before had been a horror show. Hours of him crying in the backyard, body twisted, bile black and pooling. Evelyn had locked herself away, still in tantrum mode, refusing to come out, refusing to help. Husani had begged Isabella—please, just help him. Even though Evelyn had threatened to kick her out if she got involved again.

She got involved anyway.

She gave Casper CBD and THC oil, tried to ease the pain, tried to soothe the shaking. But it was clear—he wasn’t coming back from this. He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want to be here. And still, Evelyn stayed hidden. The rain started. Cold. Relentless. The kind that makes everything feel worse.

Husani scooped Casper up from the wet concrete, cradled him like a child, and carried him to the Any-Mal Hospital. The vet didn’t even hesitate. Said there was nothing they could do. Said it was time.

Now it was Monday morning.

The absence. The shift. The house didn’t echo with barks and noises anymore—it sulked.

Isabella heard Evelyn sobbing in the next room. Not loud. Not performative. Just broken. The kind of cry that comes when the last thing tethering you to the world is gone.

And Isabella felt it. That ache. That knowing. She knew what it meant to lose a companion. She knew what it would do to her if it were Mid-Knight. It would hollow her out. It would end her.

But still—she remembered.

She remembered Evelyn laughing two nights ago, kicking her out, taunting her for having nothing. Rolling in her misery like it was comic relief. And now?

Now Evelyn had nothing.

Now she knew what it felt like.

Isabella wanted to ask her:

How does it feel?

To wake up hollow?

To reach for something that isn’t there?

To be mocked in your grief?

She could do it. She could mirror the cruelty. Say the things Evelyn had said to her. You’ve got nothing. No one wants you. You deserve this.

But she didn’t.

She sat there, hand resting on Mid-Knight’s back, feeling the weight of restraint. Feeling the ache of wanting to comfort and the ache of knowing it wouldn’t be received. Not truly. Not without manipulation. Not without cost.

She festered with guilt for feeling the flicker of justice.

She mourned Casper.

She mourned the version of herself that still wanted to make Evelyn smile.

Because sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is not become what hurt you.

Instead,

Isabella moved through the house like a shadow. Careful not to breathe too loud. Careful not to exist too much. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just carried it. Like she always did.

She remembered the days before CRPS. Before her body betrayed her. Before Evelyn’s house became a theatre of cruelty. She remembered running. Actually running. Mid-Knight beside her, tongue out, tail high, both of them laughing in their own way. She remembered cooking without theft, sleeping without dread, waking without weight.

Now she woke to silence.

Not peace. Just absence.

She didn’t wish him dead.

She wished them both free.

And so she waited.

She kept herself sane with reflection, ritual, and the mirror she held up to the rot around her. Because when people have no one to play with, they turn drama into a substitute for companionship. Their gaslighting, passive aggression, and manipulation aren’t about you—they’re reflections of their own decay. Hold up a mirror. Let them see the bitterness, the narcissistic toxicity, the cruelty they try to cast onto you. Watch them flinch when they see their true selves.

Isabella did everything right. She fought for her settlement. She protected herself with a contract. She stayed loyal. And still, she was trapped. Still, she was alone.

She remained in that house—the house that wasn’t a home—tethered by love for Mid-Knight. She counted each laboured breath he took, knowing that the day he died would be the day she was finally free. Yet she would not trade his life for her liberation.

In that cruel calculus lay her fiercest truth:

Freedom bought with betrayal is no freedom at all.

And in that silence, Isabella reclaimed something.

Not peace.

Not freedom.

But truth.