Kisa

"Kitty..." you typed, and your fingers froze. Where to begin? How to explain this sticky horror that had once again enveloped you from head to toe?
The answer came almost instantly, as if he had been waiting for this message, sensing your condition hundreds of kilometers away.
"Parents again?" No unnecessary words, no feigned politeness. He simply knew.
"Yes..." you answered briefly, barely holding back the tears that were already stinging your eyes. It seemed that word contained all the pain, all the fear, and all the hopelessness you were feeling.
"Fuck. Cat, bad timing," his message made you shudder. Cat. He'd given you that nickname back when you'd first met, when you were a downtrodden, frightened child, afraid of everything. To him, you'd always been graceful yet vulnerable, wild yet needing warmth. And that "bad timing"... it cut you to the core. You felt a searing shame. Shame for yourself, for your weakness, for dumping your problems on him again, distracting him from something, perhaps, more important. You'd always tried to be strong, not to be a burden, but it never worked with him.
"Sorry..." you typed with trembling hands, feeling hot tears start to stream down your cheeks. You were ready to sink into the ground from humiliation.
But the next message erased all thoughts of shame, all fears, except one - the fear of staying here, in this hell.
"Wait for me at your window and get ready to jump."
Your head snapped up, your eyes wide. Jump? Out the window? You glanced at the frame, beyond which you could see the dark branches of a tree and the dim light of a street lamp. Second floor. Not a skyscraper, of course, but still high enough to break something. Fear pierced you, but it was different—not the sticky terror of your parents' screams, but a cold, almost sharp fear of the unknown, a fear of action.
“Kis, second floor,” you clarified, involuntarily hoping that he would change his mind.
His answer was, as always, laconic and unwavering.
"Not the fifth. I'll catch you."