I work at a college, and whenever I use the rest room, I see signs with information about getting help if you are being abused. I'm a compulsive reader. So when I wash my hands in front of these signs, I read them, and I think. Society is so concerned about saving women from abusive men, but I rarely hear talk about the reverse. It may be more common for men to be the abusers because their bodies tend to be bigger, but that doesn't mean women are never the abusers. I wrote this story to raise awareness about the fact that men can be victims to and society doesn't make it easy for them to get help.

Sara Codair lives in a world of words, writing fiction in every free moment, teaching writing at a community college and binge-reading fantasy novels. When not lost in words, Sara can often be found hiking, swimming, or gardening. Find Sara's words in Helios Quarterly, Secrets of the Goat People, The Centropic Oracle, at https://saracodair.com/ and @shatteredsmooth.

The mirror was cloudy and cracked, but it still managed to capture Cora's reflection: sallow skin, honey hair and sunken eyes.

She wondered how many women had stared in that mirror before her, considered their reflections, and read the diminutive, yellow sign asking them if they felt safe in their relationship. Below it hung a strip of paper containing a list of questions designed to help a woman determine if her partner was abusive.

Cora read them like prayer, considering each one carefully. Miguel never threatened her, hit her or put her down, but not everyone was so sweet.

Questions wafted through her exhausted mind like cloying incense clogging church air on a high holy day: How many women actually called the number on the bottom? How many escaped their abusers? What would the phone operators say if I confessed my sins to them?

Over the past month, there had been twelve instances where she'd almost hit Miguel. This morning, she hadn't been able to stop herself from calling him a dick-headed idiot after he told her she looked hot in her red dress. She threw the dress after her insults and went to work in sweat pants and a t-shirt.

After confirming she was alone, she began her daily devotion, whispering questions to her crackled likeness, replacing 'you' with 'him' and 'does your' with 'do you' as she went:

'Do you hit, shove or push him?' No, not unless you count elbowing him in the gut because he wouldn't stop tickling me, or throwing a spatula at him because he was in my way when I was trying to bake.

'Do you threaten him with physical violence?' No. Maybe. I did throw a dress at him this morning. I may have said that the next time he objectified my body, I would throw something heavier, but I didn't specifically say I would throw it at him, so I wasn't threatening him, not exactly.

'Do you threaten his family or children?' We don't have any children. I love his sister. However, his mother, well, that woman doesn't know how to shut her mouth and mind her own damned business. One of these days, I might loose it and break her nose, but I don't recall uttering anything of that nature to Miguel. He thinks I love the crone.

'Do you insult or degrade him?' Does 'Dick-headed idiot count?' If it does, I guess I insult him, but only when he really deserves it. I mean, isn't objectifying me a form of degradation' He started it.

'Do you use his immigration status against him?' No. Just because his name is Hispanic doesn't mean he isn't American. His mother is a different story. If I could get that bitch deported, I would do it in a second.

'Do you try to keep him away from family or friends?' No. Just last night, I told him to take his mother out to dinner. I had to attend a lecture, so I knew I wouldn't have to listen to her criticism.

Cora walked out of the bathroom smiling. She wasn't abusive yet. Before she turned the corner into a conference room that housed her sociology seminar, she glanced back at the bathroom door, wondering if similar signs were present in the men's room where Miguel worked. She suspected that if she were guilty of abuse, she would deny it like St. Peter denied Christ.