06 Break In A Samantha Leary Short Story

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This story contains themes suitable for adults. Please proceed only if you are 18+.

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By J.E. Nickerson

The house was old and in poor condition, but it was hers. Sarah closed the door behind her and pressed her forehead against the cool wood for a moment, letting the lock click home like a small relief. Her legs ached, her shoulders burned, and her hands trembled from hours of scanning groceries, bagging produce, answering questions, repeating herself a hundred times over. 

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket still seemed to pulse behind her eyelids, the beeps of the scanners echoing in the hollow spaces of her skull. Even the polite, mundane questions of customers, the forced small talk, grated against her nerves.

She dropped her bagged groceries by the kitchen counter and peeled off her name tag, the faint plastic smell clinging to her fingers. The rain outside drummed steadily against the roof, a relentless percussion that seemed to pull the tension from the day into itself. 

Her phone lay face up on the counter, screen lighting the kitchen in a pale blue glow. She had checked it during her shift, hoping for a distraction, a moment of levity. Instead, the news was full of violence, suffering, disasters she could do nothing to stop. Her fingers hovered over the screen again, scrolling through updates on the website Crime Time.

Violence stretched across Pleasant Falls like a shadow she could never fully shake. It made her want to pull back. Stay inside. But she also felt the pull of words that spoke about how to survive abuse and how to recognize when people were trying to use her weaknesses against her. The posts on Crime Time were stark, factual, yet impossible to ignore. The woman who ran it, Samantha Leary, had spoken a few times at Sarah’s support group for abused and battered women. Sarah remembered the first time she heard Samantha speak—how composed and intelligent she had seemed, how she had laid bare the horrors of the world in a way that was shocking but not cruel. Reading Samantha Leary’s book Life in the Shadows, had given Sarah courage when she needed it most, the courage to leave the abusive relationship she had once convinced herself was all she could deserve.

She swiped through the most recent posts on the website. A headline caught her attention: Recognizing the Voice That Degrades.

She opened it and read slowly.

Samantha described the pattern with clinical clarity—how a partner could offer calm assurance in public, speak gently in front of others, then later dismantle you in private. How criticism arrived disguised as guidance. How belittling remarks came wrapped in concern.

The structure was deliberate. Predictable.

Nick had followed it almost exactly.

Seeing it laid out so plainly—like instructions rather than confusion—shifted something in her chest. A thin, sharp relief. Not forgiveness. Not peace. Just recognition.

All the moments she had replayed in her head surfaced at once. The times she had apologized for decisions that were never wrong. The times she had lowered her voice mid-sentence. The times she had convinced herself she was too sensitive, too dramatic, too difficult.

She wasn’t imagining it.

Her fingers hovered over the comment box.

She typed:

Sarah: this helped me.

The words looked exposed. Small. Traceable.

She deleted them.

She wasn’t used to speaking in public spaces. Didn’t like seeing her name where anyone could attach it to her. Visibility still felt dangerous.

She had learned to make herself smaller than the room required. Learned how to thin her presence until it barely registered.

The cursor blinked in the empty box. She closed the page.

Her mind drifted to her shift at Everything World—polite conversations, measured smiles, keeping exchanges brief but pleasant. She wouldn’t have called herself antisocial. She liked people, in doses. Quiet moments. One-on-one conversations with someone safe.

But her little house, the one she had bought only months ago, had become something else entirely.

It felt like a shell.

Here, she controlled the volume. The distance. The timing of interruption. Here, silence wasn’t a punishment. It was chosen. Here, she could close the door and let the outside world remain outside. No sudden demands. No subtle corrections. No invisible tests.

She could breathe.

The house wasn’t elaborate. It wasn’t even remarkable.

But it was hers.

And that mattered more than she had understood when she signed the papers.

She moved through the house. Passing the extra bedroom where boxes were stacked, waiting for her to unpack them. The sight of them made her feel the weight of responsibility pressing on her chest. Some days, she thought she would never get to them. 

Other days, the small routines of her home—the smell of freshly cleaned surfaces, the hum of appliances, the soft patter of rain against the windows—grounded her.  She shed her uniform letting it lay on the bed before stepping into the shower. The warm water struck her shoulders, chasing away sweat, stiffness, and the lingering tension of being watched throughout the day, even if only in her imagination. She lingered longer than usual, letting the heat seep into her muscles, letting her mind float in the rhythm of the falling water.

After changing into a pair of thin sweats, she slid a frozen tray of fettuccini Alfredo into the microwave. While she had once enjoyed cooking for herself, lately the pressure to get through a day of interactions left little energy to experience the joy of cooking she once knew. 

A comedy show marathon and then scrolling through her phone in bed until her body was too sleepy to stay awake, was all she wanted to focus on now. Simple acts, small anchors in a world that too often demanded more than she could give.

Outside, the storm raged. Wind tore at the trees, rain lashed the windows, and the night seemed alive with energy both terrifying and beautiful.The house smelled faintly of detergent and rain. The microwave beeped softly as the food finished cooking.  She was about to pour herself a glass of water when the knock came.

A firm knock struck the door.

Her body froze. The sudden disruption sent a jolt of fear through her. Was it Nick? Had he come back with another apology—another carefully measured tone meant to pull her back into his orbit?

Her chest tightened.

Or was it a neighbor. Someone needing something. Or just the wind forcing a branch against the wood.

The knock came again. Rattling through her. 

She glanced at the clock above the pantry door. Eight o’clock on a stormy night. She couldn’t think of anyone who would want her attention. Her neighbors kept to themselves and it had been months since she had received a visit from any family. She thought about ignoring it. If she didn’t let it disrupt her evening whatever it was might fade away. 

But the knocking returned, more urgent, insistent.

Sarah hurried to the door, the promise of a quiet night collapsing into something sharp and immediate. Whatever stood on the other side, she needed it gone.

“Just a minute! What’s the big deal?” she shouted, frustration mixing with unease.

Then came the voice. Soft, pleading, terrified.

“Please help me! I’m being chased!”

Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs.

She had read an article on Crime Time about predators who knocked on doors asking for help—flat tires, dead phones, made-up emergencies—only to use sympathy as leverage to gain entry.

She had read an article on Crime Time about predators who knocked on doors asking for help—flat tires, dead phones, invented emergencies—using sympathy as leverage to gain entry.

She knew the tactic.

Nick hadn’t needed a door.

He had stood in her kitchen instead, voice low, asking, How can I live without you? What am I supposed to do if you’re gone?

It had sounded like vulnerability.

It had been access.

The guilt had tethered her to him. Kept the door open long after she had tried to close it.

But something about this felt different.

The tremor in the woman’s voice. The uneven breaths between words. The way the storm swallowed the street outside.

Her heart hammered in her ears.

This didn’t feel rehearsed.

It felt desperate.

Sarah’s hands trembled as she slid the chain free. The metallic click of the latch sounded too loud in the quiet house.

For a split second, she hesitated.

Then she cracked the door open just enough to let the woman step inside.

The woman’s small frame barely filled the threshold. Wind tugged at her soaked hair and thin jacket. Rain streaked down her cheeks, catching in the hollow beneath her eyes. Her almond-shaped eyes were wide, flicking over the entryway, the hallway, the corners of the room—as if mapping it, or bracing for something to follow her in.

Cold air rushed past them before Sarah pushed the door shut.

Shadows from the trees outside danced across the room, flickering in the lamplight. Sarah closed the door quickly. Keeping the chaos outside from bleeding in. 

“Who are you? Where are you from?” Sarah asked, eyes scanning every subtle movement the woman made. The way her fingers twitched. The sharp rise and fall of her chest. There was something vulnerable about her. 

“My name is Li Shen,” the woman said, her voice soft but urgent. “I live in your neighborhood. I’m sorry for coming here but you were the only house with the light on.”

Sarah’s gaze caught on the bruises blooming across the woman’s arms and along her cheekbone. A swelling knot had formed near her jaw, already purpling at the edges.

Li Shen lifted a hand to her face, tentative, as if only then becoming aware of what was visible. Her fingers hovered over the bruise without quite touching it.

Something in Sarah shifted.

The calculation quieted. The suspicion receded just enough.

She stepped backward toward the half-bath, keeping Li Shen in sight. The cabinet beneath the sink held gauze and bandages—leftover from a first-aid kit she had bought when she moved in.

Behind her, fabric rustled against hardwood.

Sarah turned.

Li Shen had sunk to the floor. She folded in on herself, arms rising to shield her head as if expecting another blow. Small, broken sobs slipped through her fingers, filling the entryway with a thin, unsteady sound.

Sarah grabbed the gauze and bandages, then ran warm water over a washcloth until steam rose faintly from the fabric. She returned to the entryway.

Li Shen was still trembling.

Sarah knelt beside her and gently took her arm. The pale skin was cold. She pressed the damp cloth against the bruises, careful not to apply too much pressure.

The discoloration deepened under the warmth, swelling along the bone. A few shallow cuts reopened, thin lines of red surfacing as the washcloth brushed against them.

Sarah worked in silence, dabbing, folding fresh gauze, wrapping each place that needed covering.

“I feel like I’m going to be sick,” Li Shen whispered, voice trembling.

Sarah paused, letting the words hang in the air. The half-bath was close, just a few steps away, tucked off the entryway. It offered a measure of privacy—enough for Li Shen to lean over the sink without exposing the rest of the house.

Sarah nodded once, quietly. “It’s okay. Right here,” she said, guiding her gently by the elbow.

A sudden pounding on the door rattled the entryway—forceful, unrelenting.

“Open the door, Li Shen! I know you’re in there!” The man’s voice boomed through the storm like thunder, vibrating against the walls.

Li Shen whimpered. “Oh God no.” Her voice was barely audible, swallowed by the rain and wind as she curled in on herself.

Sarah’s heart thudded violently, each beat hammering in her ears. Thunder rolled across the roof, fusing with the pounding on the door into a chaotic symphony of threat. Every instinct screamed at her: protect, act, survive. Her eyes darted to Li Shen, trembling, frozen, too small and vulnerable in the doorway.

She grabbed Li Shen’s shoulder gently, her hands firm but steady. “Don’t open it. Stay with me.”

Li Shen’s eyes met hers, wide, searching, filled with the raw panic. Sarah guided her back toward the living room, toward safety. Every second stretched, heavy with the storm outside and the threat at the door. 

Sarah’s phone sat on the living room table where she’d left it. The pounding on the front door reverberated through the house, each thud jolting her chest. Her fingers trembled as she snatched up the phone, trying to steady her breath. Sharp, uneven inhales. Sharp, uneven exhales.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, shaking. She tapped the code, fought to stay steady, then dialed 911. The numbers blurred under her fingers, the pounding outside matching the pounding in her head.

“911 what is your emergency?” The operator’s voice sounded clinical. Detached. 

“Please help me! A woman is hurt, and a man is trying to break into my house, 336 Maple Grove Lane.” Sarah said, voice clipped. 

The pounding on the door grew louder. More insistent. She wondered how long the thin wood would hold.

“Can you get somewhere safe?” The operator asked.

The question frustrated Sarah. Why hadn’t she said the police were on their way? 

“Yes but he’s going to break down the door.” Sarah replied. Voice hushed. Pulse pounding in her ears. 

“Ma’am I have your address police are on their way. Get somewhere safe till help arrives.” The line went dead. 

The pounding on the door intensified, each strike sending a shiver of dread down Sarah’s spine. The wood groaned, protesting, splintering at the edges, as if warning her of the violence it was about to yield.

Her hands gripped the phone tighter, sliding it into her pocket. 

Li Shen hunched over. Her bruised arms and face glistened under the dim light, wet hair plastered across her forehead. She pressed her hands to her face, rocking slightly, trying to make herself disappear. Every instinct in Sarah wanted to scream at her to move, to hide—but she could only push her fear down, focus on the immediate danger.

Then the door shattered.

A splintered panel gave way, the old wood cracking and snapping like dry twigs. The door swung open violently. Sarah crouched behind the couch. She could hear the storm rush in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt, mud, and the cold sharpness of terror.

Sarah saw the man step in, his presence dominating the living room. Tall, broad, every step purposeful. Li Shen scrambled to her feet, before Sarah could reach for her.

The man’s hands shot out, grabbing Li Shen’s bruised arm with a strength that made her gasp. He shoved her forward, yanking her as though she were weightless, trying to force compliance with a brutal efficiency.

Li Shen’s small frame crumpled. Her knees bent under his strength, her breath catching, eyes wide with panic.

“You think you can run from me?!” His voice thundered. 

The man yanked Li Shen toward the door. Her legs limply struggling for footing on the carpet. 

“Let her go!” Sarah shouted, stepping in.

She struck instinctively, hands scraping across his back, clawing at his arms. Her nails caught, leaving shallow red lines that made him grunt—more startled than hurt. His grip on Li Shen loosened just enough for Sarah to wrench the younger woman free.

Without thinking, she swung at his face, fingertips raking across his cheek, leaving bright streaks of blood.

He howled, stumbling back, hand pressing against his face, fury and surprise warring in his eyes. Sarah’s chest heaved, adrenaline burning through her, but she kept herself between him and Li Shen, unwilling to let him close the distance again.

“Go!” She hissed, grabbing Li Shen’s wrist. The younger woman froze, wide-eyed, and then followed, letting Sarah guide her toward the bedroom. 

The man only hesitated for a moment before recovering. Blood streaked his face. 

He lunged after them, hands swinging, but Sarah twisted out of his grip, pulling Li Shen behind her.

The bedroom door loomed ahead. Sarah shoved Li Shen inside, slamming it hard. The old wood rattled violently under his pounding. He cursed, fists slamming, each strike making the frame tremble. Sarah braced herself, pressing her body against the door, feet planted, gaze flashing around the room, trying to find anything to wedge against the door.

Li Shen pressed herself against the wall, shivering, face pale. “He—he’s going to kill us” she whispered.

“No he’s not,” Sarah said, voice firm though trembling with adrenaline. “We’re going to be okay. Stay calm.”

Outside, the intruder’s rage hammered the door. Sarah felt the vibration through the frame, through her hands, into her chest. The storm mixed with the sound of splintering wood and the man’s curses, rain dripping from broken panels, slicking the floor. Every instinct screamed at her to fight, to protect, to do something.

Her mind raced. How long until the police arrive? She pressed her head to the door, taking shallow breaths, feeling her chest tighten with each impact against the thin wood. She was small. She was no match for him in strength. But she could think. She could use the space, the frame of the bedroom, the tools around her. She could protect them both.

Li Shen whimpered, pressing closer. Sarah slid her hands over the younger woman’s shoulders, trying to anchor her, to let her know she was not alone. The storm outside, the shouts, the splintering wood—all of it pressed down on them, but Sarah’s focus sharpened. This is now. Protect her. Survive.

“We’re going to do this together,” Sarah hissed, eyes flicking to the dresser beside her. Heavy, solid oak—it might hold the door closed.

“We’ll push it in front of the door,” she whispered to Li Shen.

The younger woman’s wide eyes made Sarah hesitate for a fraction, but she needed her to move. The door frame was splintering; it wouldn’t take much more.

Li Shen nodded, positioning herself on the other side of the dresser. Sarah pressed her shoulder against it, straining, muscles trembling, sweat beading at her hairline. The oak refused to budge easily, but inch by inch, it shifted.

She gritted her teeth, forcing her body to give every ounce of strength. Finally, the dresser settled in place, wedged tight against the door, a fragile barrier—but enough to buy them a moment.

Minutes stretched, each second a study in tension. Sarah imagined the worst. She imagined the door giving way completely. The man’s hands, the raw intensity, the intent to force, to control, to terrorize. But each thought she pushed down, replacing it with instruction. Stay focused. Stay calm. Let him strike the door, not you. Wait.

And then—the wail of sirens outside. Distant at first, then growing, cutting through the storm. Sarah’s pulse thudded in rhythm with it. She heard the pounding against the door pause. The sound of footsteps beyond the door. 

“Police! Step back from the door! Hands visible!”

Sarah held Li Shen close, whispering instructions. “Stay down. Let them handle him.” She felt the younger woman’s trembling soften slightly against her chest.

Sarah heard muffled voices beyond the door. The man’s grunts. Then a sharp cry. 

“This isn’t over Li Shen. I’ll find you!” The man’s voice faded. 

Then an officer knocked on the door. “Police, open up.” 

Sarah Exhaled shakily. She struggled to stand, her legs barely able to hold her up. She pushed against the dresser, shoving it back just enough for the door to open. 

She sank to the floor, Li Shen pressed against her. They were alive. They were safe. The storm that had invaded was contained. But the space Sarah had fought to defend and relied on for safety, was still shaking with the echoes of fear and violence.

Officers moved through the hallway. Sarah watched as they examined every room. Every place she had once believed was safe. 

Li Shen whispered, “I… I don’t know what I would have done.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sarah said, voice steadier now, though still thick with emotion. “You’re safe. We’re safe.”

They stayed low for a few more moments, listening to the police secure the house. Sarah gave a statement. Li Shen barely spoke. Voice shaky and small. Each sound outside—footsteps, rain, sirens—was a reminded Sarah of how close the danger had been, how quickly control could be wrested from them.

But they had survived. Together.

Sarah felt the weight of exhaustion finally pressing on her shoulders, mingling with adrenaline, with relief, with the realization that she had protected not just her home, but another life. 

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