Selena

 

I fell to the ground from the force of his blow. How many times had I taken a hit like that, a hit so hard that I felt as if all my body would break?

 

And I knew what was going to happen next. I was going to cry and beg and tell him that I was sorry and I’d never do it again. I was going to kiss him and soothe him as though he wasn’t the one at fault. So much of my life had been spent convincing my abuser that I was the one in the wrong. But now, as I lay there bleeding and coughing and struggling to catch my breath, I didn’t want to soothe him. He didn’t deserve to be soothed. A wild instinct I had never before experienced gripped me and, before I knew what I was doing, I was laughing hysterically.

 

“You think this is funny?” Clint whispered, kneeling down next to me. “Are you really going to start laughing right now, Selena? Is this really how you’re going to handle this? I think you need to get a grip. I think you need to understand a few things, all right? By the way you’re acting I can tell that you completely misunderstand what just happened. I’m not being funny here. I’m trying to make you see sense.”

 

I just kept on laughing. I couldn’t stop. I knew it would make him crazy and yet I just forced that mad laughter out. He deserved to be laughed at more than anybody I knew. He was an evil, puny, pathetic man and I wouldn’t be his plaything any longer. He darted his hand out and gripped the back of my hair, yanking my head back so that I was staring up into his eyes.

 

“I’m going to give you five seconds—”

 

“No!” I snarled. “You won’t give me a thing. You won’t give me one fucking second!”

 

He was so stunned, I was able to bat his hand away and jump to my feet.

 

“Selena …” he warned. “Don’t go down this road.”

 

“What road is that?” I stepped around the couch, putting it between us. “The road where you finally learn what a pathetic little man you are?”

 

“I’m pathetic?” He spit on the floor. “I’m pathetic? You’re the one secretly calling your mother! What are you, twelve?”

 

“The police are on their way,” I said, though I wasn’t sure.

 

He snorted. “I thought they might be, too, but it’s been too long. I’m a smart man, Selena. I know you like to belittle me and humiliate me but I really am a smart man; I read a lot. I know you’ve never opened a newspaper in your life, but I happen to enjoy keeping up to date with current affairs. The average police response time in Austin is ten minutes.” He tapped the side of his head condescendingly. “Maybe use your brain in future, if you have one?”

 

I didn’t want his words to wound me, but they did. I felt tears forming. I fought them back. I’m done, I told myself. Whatever happens now I’m never letting this man make me cry again.

 

“I’m leaving you,” I said.

 

His face dropped. “You’re not leaving me,” he said. “Don’t even say that.”

 

“I’m leaving you today, and there’s nothing you can do about it!” I cried, walking toward the bedroom.

 

“You’ve gone crazy!” he roared, chasing after me.

 

He grabbed my wrist and pulled his fist back, ready to punch me. I yanked my hand away and offered him my face, standing with my arms at my sides instead of raised in protection as they usually were. “Hit me then!” I screamed. “If you think you’re so tough! If it makes you feel better about yourself! Do you think it’s my fault you don’t get promotions, or respect? Do you think it’s my fault you didn’t do well in college? Do you think it’s my fault your parents didn’t love you? Is any of that my fault, Clint?”

 

He paused, fist trembling. He wanted to punch me, but he’d never seen me like this before.

 

I took a step forward. I felt powerful. For the first time in years, it was like I was a person. “I didn’t force you to skip classes and get shitty grades. I didn’t force you to go out partying instead of doing your work. And I didn’t make it so you didn’t have a mind capable of doing good work in the first place! You’re pathetic. I see that now. All you do is pity yourself, every day of your life. Pity, pity, pity. It’s pathetic! If hitting me makes you feel better, then fucking do it!” I took another step forward, speaking right into his face. “But just know that I’m going. If you stop me tonight, I’ll go tomorrow, or the next day. I’m leaving you the first chance I get, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

 

He was quiet for a long time, fist raised, watching me with hate in his eyes. Then he said, “What’s happened to you, Selena?” He lowered his fist and tried to bring his hand to my face. That was when I knew I’d won: when he tried to get emotional, to make me forget what an animal he was. “Talk to me. You can talk to me.”

 

I stepped back out of his reach. “What’s the matter with me?” I pointed at my split eyebrow. “Maybe this.” I lifted my shirt to show him the purple bruises on my belly. “Or maybe these.” I showed him my wrist, red from where he’d grabbed me. “Or this! Take your pick. I’m leaving. Let me pack.”

 

He stood in the doorway, pouting and looking like a little kid, arms folded. He wanted me to soften, go to him and lay my head on his chest and tell him I didn’t mean it. I’d never really leave him. Of course he was in the right; he was always in the right. I was just a silly ditzy woman.

 

“You’re breaking my heart,” he murmured as I zipped up the suitcase.

 

It was so predictable, I almost started laughing again. In that moment I saw the cycle clearly. He would abuse me and then emotionally manipulate me, and on other nights it would work. I would feel bad for upsetting him. Even as I bled and ached and bruised from the abuse, I would feel guilty for making him feel bad. I would rub his forehead like he was a toddler and tell him everything was going to be okay. But not today.

 

I barged past him and made for the door. “I don’t care,” I said. “I’m done caring.”

 

“You’re done caring!” He leaped forward and grabbed the suitcase out of my hand. “What sort of thing is that to say? What sort of woman are you?”

 

“I’m a tired and bored woman. Yes, bored—because this has happened before, and if I stay here it will happen again. Give me the bag, please.”

 

“You can’t leave,” he said. “You can’t leave me.”

 

“I can. I am.” I reached my hand out for the bag. “Give it to me, Clint. I’m not playing.”

 

“And you think I am?” His face grew dark. His cheeks trembled. All the self-pity vanished. “You think I am!” He threw the suitcase at me and ran for the kitchen. I heard him rooting around in drawers. I knew what he was doing.

 

My survival instincts kicked in, fear driving me forward. I forgot about the bag and made for the door. I fumbled with the latch, too late … He swiped the knife across my arm, cutting a deep gash in my bicep, and then stabbed me through the back of the leg. I screamed and swung for him, my fist catching him in the jaw. I hit him over and over, but he lashed out again. The blade stabbed me through the hand.

 

I was barely aware of what I was doing. I was made into an animal, just like him: fight or flight. I wanted to flee, but he had me pinned with the knife. I caught a glimpse of his face, blood-spattered and crazed. I head-butted him, hard, so hard that he fell back dazed for a moment. I head-butted him twice more and then kicked him right in the balls, causing him to slump to his knees.

 

And then I was able to get the latch from the door and swing it open. Bleeding from three different places, I charged into the street, right across the road and to the first door I could get to. The old lady who opened it knew exactly what had happened; the whole street had heard our arguing.

 

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Come in. Come in now!”

 

I collapsed on her porch.

 

When I woke, I was in the hospital and Mom was there, looking as tired as I felt.

 

“What happened?” I whispered.

 

“Clint has been arrested for attempted murder and assault and who knows what else, and I … Oh, you don’t need to hear this now, dear.”

 

“What, Mom?” I tried to sit up but the drugs had made me woozy.

 

“I have cancer. That’s why I couldn’t call the police. I got your hint. I’m not stupid. But … but I collapsed, right there near the phone. And by the time I came to, the phone was ringing to tell me you were in the hospital.”

 

“Cancer …”

 

I felt too numb to react. All I knew was that life was cruel. I had escaped one hell only to be plunged into another.