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I whimper.

“God, Julia,” Josh gasps. Upset, horrified, just like the other times. He’s crouched at my side so fast, his muscular form bent over me, in a mockery of protection. He smells like sweat and aftershave. A scent I used to want him to smother me with. Now all I want is to breathe.

Suddenly and with no warning, something lights in my stomach. It’s beyond rage; it’s entirely new, this hot wave melting through me. I feel...powerful. Single-minded. Strong. The two split halves of my life are slamming together like a trap snapping shut.

Josh doesn’t notice. He’s draped over me, his arms braced on either side, as he hangs his head and gently sobs. “I’m so sorry. You’re right, we need help. Just tell me you’re okay, babe.” His hair brushes my collarbone, his tears fall on my chest.

I reach behind me blindly, my fingers closing around the brass figurine of the mother and child. With all my strength, I swing it into the side of his head.

The crack isn’t sharp but meaty, thuddy with skin and bone.

Josh folds on top of me, crushing the air out of my lungs.

I lie there for a minute under his weight, breathing shallowly.

Finally, I push him off. He rolls onto his back.

From whatever dead state I was in after hitting Josh in the head, the moment I see him motionless on the rug, I come back to life.

“Josh?” I gasp. Now it’s me leaning over him, my hair brushing his torso. There’s a bloody gash on the side of his head. It’s oozing. Feverishly, I pull off my sweatshirt, ball it in my hands, press it into the wound.

“Josh! Wake up! Talk to me!”

There isn’t only a sickness in my stomach. There’s a sickness in all of me. A world-tilting, all-encompassing nausea. I dry-heave, my body jackknifing even as I keep pressing the gash on his head. If my life with Josh was a nightmare, this nightmare is so much larger, it swallows everything up.

His eyes are glassy, looking with surprise at the ceiling. Like he’s asking the same question I’m now asking of myself.

What have you done?