Linda

“I don’t ever want to hear that shit come out of your mouth again!” he screamed as he slammed the door behind him. The house shook, and I felt something inside me shrink.

I looked at the clock that hung crookedly on the wall of our perfect little house and ignored the cracks beneath it as I tried to estimate the minutes until he is back again. When he gets this mad, he usually needs to blow off some steam. Maybe end up at the bar. Maybe I’ll be lucky, and he’ll stumble back home late tonight reeking of alcohol and strange perfume. And I’ll find the courage to pack my bags and go.

The last time he caught me, he made a mess of my face. I could not leave my house for weeks. I replay the details of that day over and over in my head. How did he know I was trying to leave? Cameras? People watching me? He told me, as he stood over me, wiping the blood off his fists, that the only way I was getting away was in a casket.

I feel heavy. Like my body might fuse to this chair. Like I had been buried up to my neck in cement, and it was getting impossible to breathe. Would that be so hard? To play dead? Maybe that’s the way through.

I will my body from the chair and search for my keys. How would he know I’ve left, if I leave it all behind? I turn the knob.