She wakes up on the kitchen floor again. She slowly opens her eyes and looks up at that old ceiling fan, the blades spinning around and around, making a blurry circle so she can’t tell where one part stops and another starts. The cold, unforgiving breeze it blows at her arouses the senses she was thankful to have left behind for however long it had been since he knocked her out. She feels a horrible ache in her jaw, and in the back of her mouth she tastes blood. Her tongue slowly moves to the pain and instantly she regrets it, as the aching shoots outward along her gum. It feels like he cracked her tooth. She would know, he’s done it before. She tightens her muscles and cringes; that does it. She feels everything now, from the horrible migraine and the black eye swollen shut to the bruised ribs and strained wrist. The one place that doesn’t hurt: Her knuckles.

Nursing her wrist and using the counter for support, she stands and looks at the clock. It’s 2 am. He’s always asleep by now, no matter how brutal he had been that night. With the confidence that he’d be passed out in a drunken slumber, she hobbles to the cabinet full of industrial size bottles of over the counter pain killers. She almost laughs to herself and thinks, Some people have coffee, I have Aspirin. She pops three in her mouth and thanks her lucky stars, some days he isn’t quite finished when she comes to. Then she stops, and tonight, for the first time in forever, she cries. She stares at the bottle of pills that have become her only relief. Her only relief from his wicked words and even more wicked fists. The one refuge she has from the hate he spews at her from all sides. Her one safe haven from the cruel man she’s wedded to. 

Tonight he was angry about the food. He used to love her cooking, now he hates it. Where he used to hug her, now he punches her. Tears stream down her face as she thinks of the man she married, loving and young and foolish. Everything changed when his sister died. She mourned with him, took the first time he hit her dutifully, she told herself that he was grieving. That was 2 years ago and now, he routinely throws her around like a dammit doll. The tears have made her whole face damp, and she feels a swell of fear thinking of what would happen if he woke to see her so weak. Just as quickly as it comes, that terror is replaced with a strong seed of anger. It grows in the pit of her stomach. The anger overtakes the fear for a brief moment and that’s all she needs. The only thing she mourns now are the days she wasted in fear of him. 

It happens all at once, with every emotion in the book playing tug of war with her heart. First, determination as she races through the kitchen to the room they share, looking for her duffel. Then fear when she sees him lying on the bed, snoring. Anger when she notices his knuckles, red with her blood. Joy while she stuffs the duffel with clothes, anxiety when she makes a little noise looking for her toothbrush. Finally, it’s all pure adrenaline as she grabs her credit card and runs as quietly as one can run, out the front door and into her car. She leaves the headlights off when she pulls out of the driveway. Throwing the duffel into the passengers seat, she drives off, checking the rearview every few seconds. With every mile she checks the mirror for signs of him less. Once she hit the freeway, she never looked back.