Page 113 of Kings Don't Break

When I remain silent, he pushes things a step further. Shoving me forward into the kitchen, he finishes telling me the rest of what’ll be different now.

“Your mother and her health coverage? Done,” he says. “I spoiled you two rotten. I paid thousands of dollars for her healthcare to keep that old bat alive. For you to betray me the first chance you get thinking that shitstain of a biker was going to be able to take care of you. You thought you’d get away with being his whore and it’d all work out for you? I was a fool. No more of that.”

“Leave my mother out of this!”

“Your mother’s lucky to be alive! After today, she might not be. It wouldn’t matter either way.”

“Stay away from her…”

“It was surprisingly easy to pull off,” he boasts. “All I had to do was have a friend give her the wrong medicine. She’s so fucking senile, so fucking stupid, she didn’t even know the difference?—”

It’s the night I left him all over again. It’s him triggering something inside of me until the pressure’s too great and it bursts free.

“STAY AWAY FROM HER!”

I don’t know what it is beyond sheer delirious fury that propels me forward. Sheer frustration at the circumstance and my sudden captivity.

I throw myself at him with my bound hands clawing at his face and neck and every other part of him within reach. My nails do some damage—they slice into his skin and leave hideous red welts and scratch marks to his grunts of pain.

He staggers several steps back trying to fend me off. My nails sink into his cheek and draw blood that makes him howl. He slams a brutal fist straight into my stomach once and then twice for double damage, ripping any air from me and sending me crashing to my knees. I cough and curl up, feeling like my insides have been dislodged from their proper place.

No more than a second later, his knee collides with my jaw. Hard and merciless. A blow designed to cause excruciating pain. My body jerks beyond my control, my limbs folding. The axis point of the kitchen feels like it’s tilting. The room streaks by me then blinks out into a black cloak of nothing.

The next time I’m opening my eyes, I’m lying twisted on the kitchen floor. I’m bleeding, throbbing, aching, in so much pain I can’t even bring myself to move. My jaw feels fused shut and the tissue guarding my liver—my fucking liver—feels like it’s been shredded.

I force a cough and wince at the deep twinge of pain that follows.

I think… I need emergency medical treatment…

Something’s wrong. The punches to the stomach have caused real damage. Worse than usual. Maybe my body’s finally decided it can’t take anymore.

Ken’s nowhere in sight. The kitchen’s empty. The house is eerily silent.

Where he’s gone after knocking me out remains a mystery; it wouldn’t be the first time he’s left me unconscious on the floor. I’d have found it stranger if he stayed to check on me.

Out of the loud stillness comes the slow pad of footsteps. These much lighter and cautious than what belongs to Ken.

It can’t be. There’s no way someone’s?—

“Help,” I croak, my insides tender, my jaw throbbing. Barely above a whisper, the most I can manage. “Please… if you’re… there… help.”

The footsteps change course. They travel from farther down the hall toward the kitchen. Whoever it is has heard me; they’re coming to peek into the room.

“Help,” I gasp again. A shriveled kernel of hope comes to life that this person has wandered into the house somehow and is on the verge of saving me.

My entire face has puffed up from Ken’s knee; I recognize this without seeing myself in the mirror. I’ve had enough injuries throughout our marriage to tell by how my eye sockets ache and my lids won’t open all the way. Still, I struggle to glance over in the kitchen doorway, hoping to make eye contact with whoever the person is.

Intense confusion leaves me speechless of even another croak. It goes on for another few seconds as I lay broken on the floor and the woman in the doorway stares at me like she’s come across something… inconvenient.

“Help,” I sputter feebly, hoping maybe… just maybe…

Janessa tilts her head to the side, her features sharp. She’s clutching her purse to her shoulder, dressed in her scrubs. “What did you do to him? Where did he go?”

Oh no…

“Please,” I mutter. “Help me.”

“Kenny! Are you here?”