There comes a moment in every survivor’s life when they’ve had enough. They’ve been pushed and bullied so much that they quit thinking and simply react. Pure instinct that, in many cases has been suppressed far too long. Perhaps, had it not been, things never would have reached the levels they do.
My moment arrived last night. We were sitting there, same as always. Me attempting invisibility, him ranting and raving, out of control, beating me down any and all ways he could. Nothing new about that. On and on he went, ceaselessly. I’d given up fighting back so long ago he was beyond shocked when I stood. Instantly he tensed, ready for things to once again turn physical as if he relished the renewed opportunity. When I turned away and went for the recycling bin he was clearly disappointed.
He followed, berating me every step of the way for not putting it out sooner. Oh the things he said! No one should ever be subjected to things like that. No one! But I was. Continually, day in, day out. Had been for what felt like forever. I barely remembered a time when my life was different.
Most days that is. Last night, for some unknown reason I did remember. Just a brief flash but a memory nonetheless. From back when I used to smile. When I used to bother. When I used to care. I was nice back then. Decent. Kind. Generous. Confident. Alive. Nothing at all like what I’d let myself become. What I’d let him turn me into.
So last night I took out the recycling. And stood outside, barefoot and coatless in the sleet, staring at nothing on the pavement beside the bin. Staring longer than it took him to grab another beer. Staring long enough for him to worry that I would once again go looking for someone to listen who might finally expose him for the monster he was even though I’d given up all hope of that forever ago. No one ever believed me anyway, no matter what physical evidence I presented.
He came looking for me, demanding an explanation that I didn’t have. I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer for there was no answer. Just kept staring at nothing, frozen in place, paralyzed. Eventually he came off the porch to look for himself, shoving me out of the way but not quite far enough. No, not far enough.
He was griping as he turned to me. I was standing in a way that he couldn’t grab my arm as he normally did. That threw him off balance somewhat. I hadn’t planned it. Really, I hadn’t. It wasn’t something I’d even considered. Or thought of for that matter. But when he reached for me and began to say something even more hateful than ever, I did it. I just did it. Without thinking. Without even knowing exactly what I was doing. But did it I did.
He was so involved in gearing himself up to drag me back inside to pummel me he was distracted. He never saw it coming. The look of surprise on his face when I popped him dead in the throat with the heal of my hand was priceless. Oh did I pop him! Hard as I could putting years of pent up anger behind it.
The world went silent. I watched as he fell in slow motion. The force of my swing carried him backward. His feet got tangled. His neck bounced off the iron railing with such force I thought the railing might be knocked out of the concrete steps. He landed on the recycling bin. I didn’t miss the irony of that.
The gurgling was horrible and fascinating all at once. He seemed to want to scream at me, probably for spilling his beer which was draining against his shin. Bet that was pissing him off. I waited for his eyes to glaze over and the bubbles to stop coming out of his mouth before I went in to call for help.
By the time they arrived I was sobbing hysterically. Tears of relief but they didn’t know that. Since he always portrayed himself as doing absolutely everything, there was no question of them believing I’d been inside and hadn’t seen a thing. The coroner ruled his death a tragic, unfortunate accident. A combination of the weather making the pavement slippery and his being under the influence which caused him to slip.
Yep, an accident.
I’m finally free.
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