Page 102 of Break Me Not

I moved to the sofa and looked at the intricate painting across from me. A woman alone in a field of flowers. I used to think it was a bit depressing, and somehow that's what I liked so much about it. A woman, just like me, alone in this depressing world.

But the more I looked at her now, the more I felt that it wasn't depressing at all. Maybe she chose to be in that field of flowers as her first move into living a life of her own.

Maybe she’s not even alone. Just like I’m not. Not anymore.

He sat on the love seat across from me, his face blocking my view of the painting long enough to cause a queasy feeling in my gut. I put my tote bag down beside me.

“So,” I said with a sigh and placed my hands on my lap. “You wanted me, and now I'm here. Now tell me, is it everything you ever dreamed of?”

As he stayed silent, I took him in more critically this time.

He was in a gray T-shirt and basketball shorts, neither looking like they had been washed in at least three weeks. He was unshaven and his hair was greasy. Even though he got the better end of the deal, it would seem he was declining.

I took pleasure in it. In how little and frail and disgusting he looked.

I never allowed myself to think like this before. To look down on him.

There was always a voice in the back of my head that sounded a little bit too much like my mother's always telling me I shouldn't judge him so harshly. That I was being mean to my own husband—the person who made my life possible and gave me my daughter.

Today, I was pushing that voice to the back of my head and beating it up with a heavy metal shovel.

He gave me nothing. I gave myself and my daughter everything. And here he was, this sad little sample of a man, trying to take it all away.

“What?” I asked. “Now you have nothing to say?”

“So you’re coming back to me?”

I tilted my head to the side and crossed one leg over the other. “Was that what I said?”

He started puffing up. There it is. He could only act meager and weak for so long before it started to eat at him. Three minutes. A new record for him.

My eyes searched the room, looking at the corners, where I knew my saving grace would be hidden.

Just push a little more. Channel all the recklessness into this moment.

“See, I knew you would come here spouting this bullshit.”

He started shifting in his seat. Looking around the room. His anger was stifling.

A part of me was scared of it. After all, he had burned down my gallery. He had smashed the window. And on an occasion long ago, he even tried to hurt me.

I could see him fantasizing about doing the same right now.

But as I sat there, I saw him as the little man who just wanted me to feel small. Wanted me to regret leaving him and not treating him like the king he believed himself to be.

I stood up and carefully placed my bag on the couch, but not before grabbing something small from the inside and carefully keeping it out of sight. When I walked to him, he was so shocked by my sudden movement that he just sat there, frozen.

I let my hand cup his cheek, and his eyes widened. His fantasies were coming true. I could see it in his eyes. His wife was crawling back to him.

Quick as lightning, I raised my hand and slapped it as hard as I could against his cheek. The sound of it sounded like a gunshot that echoed through the room as he reacted just as I knew he would—with his hand around my throat.

His eyes were crazed.

“You fucking bitch.”

I let out a laugh. “That's it? That's how hard you can choke? This is child’s play⁠—”

He squeezed harder, cutting off my air supply.