“GET.”

“THE.”

“FUCK.”

“OUT.”

I shoved him a little harder with every word.

He was drunk but not drunk enough because he didn’t budge.

He begged.

He cried.

He pleaded.

The words swirled in my head and I just wanted it to be over.

I ran to the kitchen, yanked open a drawer and grabbed the biggest knife I could find.

He laughed.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

He unplugged the phone and threw it out the front door.

“Whadaya gonna do now? Daddy’s not here to save you,” he sneered.

“If I can’t kill you, I’ll kill myself.”

I made a scratch and he threw me across the room.

I landed on the couch and scrambled to get up.

But I wasn’t fast enough.

He silenced my screams with a slap.

Then his hands were around my throat and I couldn’t breathe.

When I came to he was in handcuffs.

I wish I could say that was The End…

Yes, this really happened.

No, “He” is not my husband. It was a long time ago.

*Concrit not necessary. I’m not a writer.*

For a lighter post (more my typical schtick) go here.

 

44 Responses to The Fight

  1. omg!! so sorry to read this. so sorry that you had to go though something like this.
    really horrible. glad that you made it out of that okay.

    what was the end? in another post, maybe…
    and you’re a terrific writer!!!

    betty

  2. Momma Fargo says:

    Oh, geez. Here I thought I was going to have to drive to your rescue. Eek. Glad it wasn’t now or your hubs. I am sure you took care of the problem. However, the story kept me on the seat of my pants.

  3. I am so sorry that you had to go through something like this. It made me want to cry for you. I am so glad that you made it out of that ok and are here to tell your story. And sweetie, you are an amazing writer.