I clutched my side of the bed, partially falling off; the nightly lifeboat to save me from him. Maybe if he can’t feel me there he won’t touch me again. As I scooch closer to the edge, a foot off the side, then a leg, I fantasize about a world where I’m able to slide out of that prison, glide silently through the creaky house, gather the kids who have magically become mute, and flee on a chariot into the sky, leaving Hades to burn alone below.
Tears stung my eyes again. How many times would I dream and fantasize before I snap? Before I pick up that hammer and crack his skull open? I’ve had that lovely fantasy countless times, the look of shock on his face as his blood and brains pour out of that vacant head, like a miniature volcano seeping lava. The image keeps me warm as he’s rolled over taking the covers once more.
I fill up with violent thoughts of ways he could die. No, not of ways he could die, but of ways I could kill him. Maybe I could become a vigilante against abusers. Swathed in black leather and some ridiculous fedora, seeking out dropped domestic violence charges or too many falls down the stairs. Appearing before these weak and desperate men to show them what real power is. Seeing the light in their eyes fade with each stroke of pain, each drop of blood, or slice of a knife.
The smile on my face threatens to become a delirious giggle, but it must be suppressed. He can’t wake up. I don’t want him to remember I’m there. Because in truth, I’m not a vigilante, I’m not the heroine of this story, I’m not even the heroine of my own story, much less anyone else’s. I am meek and frightened.
No. That’s not me. That’s him. Those are his lies. One day he’ll realize that I’ve been biding my time, waiting him out until he was too lazy, too tired, an inability to fight, and then it would be my hands around his neck, but I wouldn’t stop. I would destroy my hands to squeeze the last breath from him, and if I could. I’d bring him back to life to do it again if that was possible.
Each night the fantasy is the same. Each night I become closer and closer to making it real. One day I’ll be wearing an orange and finally be happy.
Book Slut 