This isn’t you. Looking in the mirror, you’re surprised that you’ve let it get this far—that what was once a seemingly fulfilling, exciting existence has spiraled into this stinking, rotting, shit of an excuse for a life. Your mind is finally made up. That woman in the mirror has had enough. It’s time. The digital clock reflected backwards in the mirror surreptitiously announces 3:56, as if you and time are in on it together.
“What is this?” He barks, making you flinch at the sudden sound. He holds up a piece of paper that could be a telephone bill, an email, or some other evidence. The look in his eyes is recognizable torture. There isn’t time to think or respond the way they told you you should. It comes in flash of light—pain—searing heat.
You think, “Not again. He promised.” But the pain is real, and the weight of his fist and your body are too much, so you crumple like an old dishrag onto the floor, curl into a ball, and hope that this time it will be short. You pray that this time he won’t take off his belt but he does, and when you look up, the pain you feel isn’t the buckle cutting your bare skin, or the now-familiar feelings of your jaw dislocating (how will you explain it this time?), but the fear in her tiny, wondering eyes as she sees this scene again and asks, “Mommy?” What will you answer this time? How will you answer, when the last thing you remember is her teardrops on the floor in front of you, which slowly, no matter how hard you fight, fade to black?
This time was the last time. You were sure of it. And so was he. You just didn’t realize how right you were until they said those final words, “Time of death, sixteen twenty two.”
–
Valerie is here.
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