Page 3 of Alive and Wells

Iamdone. I need to get out.

“What’s that now?”

“Nothing. Sorry.” I shake my head violently. It was a stupid,stupidthing to say. Apparently, I haven’t learned quite enough over the last three years to fully keep the peace.

“You’re done? After everything I’ve done for you? This house, the car, all your fancy shit—ungrateful bitch,” he snarls. “Fine. Go. You don’t think I can’t get another girl like you? Fuckin’ prettier, probably. If you think you can find better, be my fucking guest. You’ll be back—you’ve always been a gold-digging whore. Other guys are going to see right through you, babe.”

To my surprise, he stands and sulks out of the bathroom. The door slams, followed by what sounds like the closet door being ripped from the frame. I stare ahead, trying to find the strength to get up and lock him out. But my body may as well be glued to the cold, hard ground. Glass shatters and I’m melting into the floor.

This.This is why I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Then the room becomes silent. Too silent. After a few minutes, I work up the nerve to peel myself from the floor, and crack open the bathroom door.

KJ’s sitting in the middle of what looks to be a tornado disaster zone. A horrific tornado with pretty eyes and a terrifyingly wicked heart. The closet door hangs lopsided, my dresser drawers lie in a heap on the ground, and water trickles down the wall above the bed from where I assume he threw my bedtime glass. And he’s crying. Not plain crying—full-on sobbing. Heaving.

I move quickly and silently, filling a duffle bag and laundry basket with clothes scooped from the plush carpet. Ignoring his wails. I’ve tried to leave multiple times, and he’s never let me get this far. Usually, he’s barricading us in the room, ripping my clothes from my hands, and keeping a firm grip on my wrists until I agree to stay.

This isn’t how I was supposed to leave. I was supposed to plot everything out meticulously. I’ve watched countless girls share their plans on the forum, and I know the drill: have a go-bag packed, siphon money from our joint account, and have somewhere to go. At least I have a place to go and a job lined up. I just have no fucking idea how to get there.

He hit me.Three small words repeat like a mantra, driving me forward despite the pit in my stomach over how unprepared I am to leave.

Everything’s too easy as I float down the staircase and out the front door. The driveway’s dark and, for once, I’m grateful that my crappy Honda Civic doesn’t “deserve” a spot in the garage. One less obstacle in my way. The laundry basket in my arms plunks onto the car’s silver hood.

This is easy. I can do this. Piece of cake.

I’m sifting through my oversized purse, searching for keys, when I hear his heavy, ragged breathing behind me.

“Touch that fucking car door. I swear to God, I will kill you.”

For some reason, I’m compelled to look at him, and I nearly collapse when I do. I wasn’t aware he owned a gun. How long has there been a fucking gun in our house?

My heart stops as I watch the man I once thought I loved…

Pointing a gun at me.

Rage-filled eyes, corded neck, and he’s not even shaking. All the emotion he had moments ago in the bedroom is gone. Replaced by the face of a cold psychopath with nothing to lose.

Has he been planning on killing me like I’ve been planning on killing him?

“Kyson. Please, don’t do this. Don’t do something you’ll regret—please. I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry. Please.” Each word stabs. Each inhalation is painful. Regardless, when it comes to fight-or-flight mode, my natural inclination is to fawn—at least, that’s what my previous therapist called my defence mechanism. The seconds drag on as my eyes cut between the gun and his face. “I love you. You know that, right? We have issues, but so does everyone, right? Please, baby. I love you and you love me.We can fix this.”

His hardened face is almost invisible in the darkness, cloaked in the moonlight. His voice low. “Cecily, just tell me if you’re fucking somebody else.”

“No. God, no. I would never—please believe me, KJ. Please. You know I love you so much. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I swear. I’m sorry for making you think I would do that. I would never. I’m sorry.Please.” My voice crumbles at the last word. There’s nothing more I can do to convince him not to kill me now.

I should’ve left years ago. I’m not stupid. I knew, statistically, I was likely to die by his hand. Still, I stayed.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.” The gun lowers to his side and he exhales. “Come on—it’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

I palm the car keys and give him a thin-lipped smile. “I’m sorry.”

Chucking the duffle bag in ahead of me, I scramble into the car and slam my fist down on the door lock button before he has time to react. The car fires to life just in time for KJ to lunge forward, smacking his fists down on the hood in fury. I shift into reverse and fly backward with my hands in a death grip on the wheel. The laundry basket tumbles to the ground, scattering my belongings across the asphalt driveway. His face is contorted by a horror-movie-like scream that I can’t hear over the blasting radio. Glancing in the rearview as I careen down our sleepy suburban street, I see him drop to his knees.

No gunfire.

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