AFTER SPENDING THE REST of yesterday with Nick—enjoying a nice dinner, and talking well into the night like we used to—my heart feels stretched thin. It’s being tugged on by the weight of the dysfunction of our relationship, and it’s close to its breaking point.
My time spent with him makes me question what I thought I knew to be true.
Maybe it was a sick coincidence that Heather was killed.
Maybe he never had a hand in her death.
The fact is that the truth may never come out. I might be living under the same roof as a killer. Though his deception is very convincing—a wolf disguised in sheep’s clothing—he’s sworn to have changed his ways. But one thing I’ve realized, from the many apologies that I’ve been given, is that there’s always one more. One more excuse. One more justification. One more regret that yields no penance. I feel guilty for my skepticism, but you can only hear unfulfilled promises for so long before they become just pacifying words.
My thoughts drift to Tyler. Mindlessly, my hand moves over my heart to rub out the ache that his absence creates. I consider grabbing his shirt to lose myself in its scent. It’s become a crutch to brace me when I’m feeling broken, though I know I need to learn to stand on my own. If I’m going to make things work with Nick, I need to wipe Tyler from my life, and that includes the one item that prompts my memories of him.
Before I lose the pretence behind my actions, I begrudgingly collect Tyler’s shirt and clutch it in my hands. My fingers twist in the fibres. My nostalgia fights tooth-and-nail against what I know I need to do. As I toss the navy-coloured fabric into the trash, the bitter taste of bile develops on the back of my tongue. I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat and bury the remains under a collection of previously discarded items. The makeshift burial triggers emotions of mourning to wash over me. It’s the final nail in the coffin of my relationship with Tyler—discarding my last reminder of our time together. With the material now obscured, I say goodbye to a love that will, now, only remain concealed in the deepest part of my soul. Forever mine to cherish—in isolation—away from jealous minds.
Normally, I spend dinnertimes alone, drowning in isolated silence. So when I see Nick walking through the door with a bottle of champagne, needless to say, I’m considerably surprised. That’s two days in a row he’s made an effort after the last bout of obvious disregard. Though it’s not a substantial pattern to base his ambition on, it’s appreciated all the same.
“Good evening, Pixie,” he says, as he saunters over to place a chaste kiss on my forehead. “How was your day?”
“Good,” I reply, cautiously, waiting for evidence of my husband’s abduction.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he remarks playfully. “I told you. I want to do better. And now that you’re home, I’ve been feeling better.”
My eyes dampen from his admission. I hope with all my heart that his words are true.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, eyeing his offering. “What are we celebrating?”
“Us, of course,” he says matter-of-factly.
I smile while serving up our meals. As I place the dishes on the table, I hear a loud pop behind me, followed by the lid of the garbage being lifted. I hold my breath and count down the seconds until I hear it close again. When I finally do, I gradually exhale through my nose to slow my heart rate.
The rest of dinner goes smoothly, with comfortable conversation and stolen glances, easing me a little more into the idea of a changed Nick. He seems lighter than I remember. Like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. I’m reluctant to allow myself to revel in the transformation, but I can’t say I’m not hopeful that it will continue.
Nick offers to clean up after dinner, so I hurry upstairs to get dressed in something more comfortable. Trading in my skinny jeans and snug blouse for a pair of stretchy tights and an off-the-shoulder top, I feel more relaxed and ready for the next half of the evening…of getting acquainted with new Nick.
As I walk over to exit the room, a cool chill shivers over me. A frigidness fills the air. While rubbing my hands over my arms to wipe away the goosebumps erupting over my skin, I reach forward to open the door.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” Nick’s voice booms furiously on the other side of the opening. I instinctively cower back into the room, putting as much distance between us as possible. The back of my legs hit the bed.
How?…
“I…I…I don’t know,” I whimper, petrified of his sudden change.
“Don’t lie to me, Allie!” he seethes through his clenched teeth. “This is a man’s shirt! Why was it in our garbage?”
“I…I…I don’t know,” I repeat, sounding like a broken record. Words fail me as I stare into his darkened eyes. Knowledge of what comes next causes me to brace before impact.
The back side of his hand collides with the side of my head, driving it forcibly to the side. He grasps my hair in a tangled web around his fingers and wrenches my head forward, holding me inches from his face.
“Is this that piece of shit’s shirt?” he shakes me, tugging on the taut strands. His insinuation doesn’t need further explanation. I hold onto my confession to protect Tyler. I bite down in defiance.
A low incredulous chuckle makes my skin crawl with fear. Then the hard ridge of knuckles connects beneath my cheekbone. I’m sure something is broken as the excruciating, stabbing pain of the attack pulses beneath my skin.
“ANSWER ME!”
He swings again.
My head sways as it tries to decipher which Nick is striking me. The image in front of me divides and merges randomly in a blurred kaleidoscope of a furious man.
He swings again.
And again.
The assault halts long enough for him to demand again, “ANSWER ME!”
A torrent of tears release as I surrender to his demand. Disgust with myself swarms me as the word, “Yes,” falls from my lips. My fear has taken control of my brain as my heart breaks from my cowardice. “It’s his,” I confess. “It’s his.”
He releases me to stomp across the room while weaving his fingers through his hair in frustration. He paces back and forth, as his eyes bounce around vacantly. I watch them helplessly as they blacken, drowning out the last fragments of my Nick, leaving an unhinged impostor in his stead.
As I study the monster that stands before me, trying desperately to recognize a shred of the man I loved, my hands and knees instinctively draw up to shield me from the next onslaught of aggression.
He stops to leer in my direction, then storms over and grabs my chin roughly between his fingers. A snarl curls his lips, “Why do you continually defy me? Spending time with him? Leaving with him? Speaking to a reporter? Now, this? How did you think I would react to finding another man’s shirt in MY house? You betrayed me, Allie. Now you’re going to reap the consequences of your actions, just like that snoopy redhead. All it took was a little bump, and the delivery truck did the rest for me. It was a little too easy.”
His voice is eerily calm.
It sends chills down my spine.
He did kill her!
He’s a murderer!
His hand releases my face and I side-step around the edge of the bed. He stalks toward me as I back away.
“Nick you don’t have to do this. I was getting rid of it. I choose you! Please…”
My plea gets cut short as another fist smashes into me, this time connecting with my stomach. A wooziness fogs my brain as my lungs are forced to expel what little air my panicked breaths drew in, leaving me gasping for air. I collapse onto my hands and knees, flattening my palms against the floor to steady myself.
The muscles in my abdomen tighten reflexively to work through the pain. The ache permeates throughout my body. I heave with nausea as the trauma settles in, persuading my stomach to expel its contents onto the hardwood floor. My limbs become heavy beneath me, making it hard to hold my weight. Though, somehow, I’m able to draw enough strength to crawl farther away.
He doesn’t relent in his pursuit, following me move for move.
One step forward.
One crawl back.
One step forward.
One crawl back.
The short distance is travelled quickly, and the hard wood of our nightstand presses against my hind end as I back into it, blocking my retreat. My lowered head spots Nick’s leg being raised a second before the blow. It cracks against my forehead and makes my vision fade in and out of blackness. A slow trickle flows down over my eye, and I fall back on my calves as my body loses its strength.
My body’s too weak to endure any more. One more hit and I’ll be unconscious…or worse.
I wearily teeter on my hindquarters. Grabbing the support behind me, I gather what little strength I have remaining, and pull my battered self to standing. My fingers grip the lip of the table top to balance me.
He watches me with sick amusement, though there’s a flicker of something he tries to conceal. He seems to be battling for control. His fists clench at his sides while mine grip around the lamp obscured behind me. I pivot my waist and use the momentum to smash the ceramic base to the side of his head. The sound of it shattering clashes with his grunt of shock. He staggers, stumbling over his own feet as he tries to overcome the effects of the blow.
I refuse to allow my window of opportunity to pass me by and painfully lurch toward the door. The distance feels infinite. My progress is slow as a result of the damage inflicted by Nick’s attack, though I’m propelled forward by his pursuing gait.
My hands grip over the railing to use its stability. I manoeuvre along its smooth surface, pulling my body in the direction of the stairs. But just before I can begin my descent, Nick’s large hand grips my arm and snaps me to his side.
His jaw pulses with fury. Crimson paints his face where the fragments of ceramic pierced his tanned skin.
“You’re not going anywhere!” he bites out threateningly.
I flail in his arms, fighting with every last drop of strength not already consumed. I battle an unbalanced war of wills as I sputter on empty. I’m no match for him while he attempts to strong-arm my obedience.
My elbow catches the side of his nose. The sickening crunch conveys the damage, while curses spill from his mouth in reckless abandon. We’re both oblivious to our proximity to the edge of the step until we feel gravity’s pull. The last thing I see before tumbling backward is the stream of blood cascading down the front of his dress shirt before he teeters over me.
My stomach rises into my throat as I fall. Each hard tread digs into me as I tumble. My arms and legs bounce around like a rag doll. They’re boneless as they swing aimlessly with no traction.
Nick’s heavy body picks up speed, moving faster than mine. Our once interlocked bodies grow farther apart with each jolt of contact.
Time seems to slow as I descend down the length of the staircase. The momentum with which we fall saves us from meeting every step, but the damage will still be substantial. When I finally reach the bottom, Nick’s motionless body breaks my fall.
I must be delirious if I’m considering the irony of my saviour—since he’s been adamant to enforce his role as my adversary.
I test out my rubber arm and legs to see if they’ll support me. My strong desire to be free of Nick’s constraints drives me to push forward, needing to make my life my own.
I toddle along, weak and semi-coherent, toward the large front door, watching my freedom grow nearer. Hope blooms in my chest with each step in its direction. The arduous task of putting one foot in front of the other wears on me, but I continue anyway—in a zombie-like state of awareness.
As I swing the door open, the cooler night air blows across my battered face. Its paradoxical qualities soothe away the heat of the blood near the surface, but sting across my wounds. It’s enough to perk my waning alertness as my eyes struggle to stay open.
With renewed motivation, I exit the house, leaving behind the abuse, the dominance…and my husband—ready to move forward and never look back.