I shoved him a little harder with every word.
He was drunk but not drunk enough because he didn’t budge.
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 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.