Live to Tell Read Free Page A

reel back, not so much from the force of the plastic cup as from the shock of the blow.
    “What the fuck is this?” he screams, two inches from my water-drenched face. “What the fuck is this?”
    “Water,” I reply, stupidly.
    He tries to club me again, more water spraying the couch, then we’re off and running, me dashing for the medicine cabinet in the downstairs lavette, him determined to wrestle me to the ground so he can beat my head against the hardwood floor, or wrap his fingers around my throat.
    He catches my ankle at the edge of the family room. I go down hard on my right knee. Reflexively, I kick back. I hear him roar in frustration as I break free and bolt four more steps.
    He catches me in the side, crashing me against the wainscoting. The chair rail slams into my ribs with bruising force.
    “BITCH! Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
    “Please,” I whisper. No good reason. Maybe because you have to say something. “Please, please, please.”
    He grabs my wrist, squeezing so hard I can feel small bones grinding together.
    “Please, sweetheart,” I whisper again, desperately trying to sound soothing. “Please let go, honey. You’re hurting me.”
    But he doesn’t let go. I’ve read him wrong, missed the signs, and now he’s gone to the dark place. I can say anything, do anything—it doesn’t matter. He’s a feral animal, needing someone to hurt.
    And I think, as I often think during these times, that I still love him. Love him so much my heart breaks more than any bones, and now, even now, I have to be careful. I don’t want to hurt him.
    Then, in the next instant, I lash out with my foot, connecting behind his kneecap. He goes down just as I wrench my hand free. I race for the bathroom, crashing open the medicine cabinet and scrambling for the orange prescription bottle.
    “I’m going to kill you!” he roars in the hallway. “I’m going to stab you a million times. I’m gonna fucking rip off your head. I’ll eat your heart, I’ll drain your blood. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you.”
    Then the sound I don’t want to hear—the whap whap of his bare feet slapping down the hall as he wheels around and runs for the kitchen.
    Ativan, Ativan, Ativan. Dammit, where’s the Ativan?
    I hit the bottle with the side of my hand. It falls to the floor, rolls across the tiles.
    I hear another scream, pure unadulterated rage, and know he’s just discovered that I locked up the kitchen knives. I did it two weeks ago, in the middle of the night, when he was sleeping. You have to keep one step ahead. You have to.
    The Ativan has rolled behind the toilet. My fingers are shaking toohard. I can’t reach it, can’t roll it out. I hear crashing now. Cherry cabinet doors being flung open, cups, plates, serving platters being tossed onto imported Italian tile. I changed everything over to Melamine and plastic years ago, which only pisses him off more. He has to trash the kitchen, does it every time, even as the lack of shattering damage drives him further over the edge.
    Another loud crash, then silence. I find myself holding my breath, then bend over the toilet, scrabbling for the damn prescription bottle. The quiet stretches on, unnerving me more than the destruction.
    What’s he doing? What has he discovered? What have I missed?
    Dammit, I need the Ativan now .
    I force myself to breathe, to steady my strung-out nerves. Towel, that’s the trick. Roll up the towel, poke it behind the toilet, push the prescription bottle out the other side. Got it.
    Tranquilizer tablets firmly in hand, I creep into the hallway of my now silent home, already terrified of what I might find.
    One step. Two, three, four …
    I approach the end of the hallway. Expansive family room on the left, followed by formal dining room, leading to the gourmet kitchen to the right, then circling around into the vaulted foyer. I peer behind the dying ficus tree in the corner, then tiptoe into the family room, mindful of the ambush