13+87=100

TW: honestly a lot of them: DV, SA, Language
⸻

It was always raining in London.

The gray skies had become a permanent part of Taylor's life — not just outside, but within her too. It had been seven months since she'd last smiled without fear trailing it like a shadow. Seven years of carefully measured footsteps, words spoken in whispers, bruises disguised under silk sleeves and oversized jumpers.

Seven years with Joe.

She hadn't written a song since You're Losing Me and that was a couple years ago right. Her guitar sat untouched in the corner of the flat, a thin layer of dust coating its strings. Every time she looked at it, her stomach twisted, like her creativity had been locked away in a box Joe kept the key to.

"Put on something decent. We're taking Benjamin to the vet. He's been limping again," Joe snapped from the living room, his accent sharp, clipped.

Taylor flinched, her hand automatically brushing against her hip, where the bruise from three nights ago still throbbed when she moved too quickly. She didn't reply. She knew better than to ask for a moment to get dressed. She was already wearing a hoodie and leggings, her hair tied up in a loose bun that hadn't been combed properly in days.

Benjamin meowed weakly, curled up in his cat carrier, his soft ginger fur dulled from stress. Taylor hated taking him out when he was sick, but the vet appointment had been booked for weeks. And Joe insisted they go together, even though Olivia and Meredith were fine staying home.

She glanced at the small folded note in her hoodie pocket.

She had written it last night.

Shaking fingers, eyes blurry with tears, hiding in the bathroom while Joe snored on the couch — drunk and passed out after another night of calling her useless, pathetic, a failure, a fraud. She'd folded the paper over and over until it was as small as her thumbnail, then tucked it into her hoodie.

She'd prayed the assistant at the vet would be kind.

She didn't know what would happen if it didn't work.

⸻

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and anxiety. Benjamin whined softly in the carrier at her feet, and Taylor knelt beside him, her hand slipping through the metal bars to scratch behind his ears. He was warm. Real. Something still hers.

Joe sat beside her, legs spread wide, one hand lazily brushing against the inside of his jacket where the gun sat snugly in its holster. She could see the imprint of it through the fabric — a quiet threat.

The vet assistant walked over — a young woman named Charlotte, maybe in her early twenties, with a soft ponytail and anxious eyes.

"Miss Swift? We're ready for Benjamin."

Taylor stood, knees shaking.

She gripped the carrier in one hand, and with her other — slipped the crumpled note into Charlotte's palm as they passed.

"Call the police my boyfriend is abusing me physically and mentally abusing me and is threatening me with the gun he has with him"

Their fingers brushed.

Charlotte's eyes widened just slightly, flickering to the paper, then to Taylor's pale face.

"Right this way," Charlotte said, her voice perfectly steady. Taylor didn't look back. If Joe saw, it was over.

The door clicked shut behind them.

"Are you alone?" Charlotte asked quickly, her back to the door.

"No. He's in the waiting room. Gun. Right side of his coat." Taylor's voice broke, barely audible.