He is swearing loudly at the broken bottle, and my hands start to shake as he walks, no, stumbles, up to the front door of our lower floor apartment.

“Hi sweetie,” I say as he comes through the door. “How was your day?”

He pauses and gives me a sweeping look from head to toe. Once upon a time, that look might have made me blush; now it just makes my skin crawl.

He grunts and moves into the kitchen, sprawling out on one of the chairs as he eyes the dinner in front of him distastefully. “What the fuck is this?”

“Roast beef,” I say quietly, sitting opposite him. I’m careful not to make eye contact as I pick up my knife and fork, slicing into the tender meat.

“It looks like roast crap.”

I flinch inwardly at his hurtful statement, but I keep my face carefully stoic and say nothing. He picks up his fork and stabs at his plate, and I think my heart just about jumps into my throat when he tries unsuccessfully to spear a piece of potato.

He says nothing, but raises his eyes to mine.  My fork drops to the plate with a loud clatter, and the chair scrapes across the floor as I scoot back, my eyes wide.

“Troy, I can explain, I—”

“Shannon,” he says in a quiet voice, his eyes never leaving mine. “Come here.”

My mind is screaming no, but my feet seem to move of their own accord. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears as I shuffle toward him. He grabs my arm and drags me the rest of the way as he stands and begins unfastening his belt. I lower my lashes as his breathing becomes labored.

“On the couch,” he orders quietly. I turn my back and move to the living room. I hear his heavy footsteps following me, and try to suppress the shudder that runs through me.

I lie face down on the couch and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting.

“What the fuck is this?” he sneers, picking up the letter I’d carelessly dropped on the coffee table. My heart beats faster. Please don’t read it.

Dear Miss Harper,

We regret to inform you that there has been a terrible accident. Your father is…

He pauses and my eyes fly open. I turn my head to look at him, and immediately regret my mistake. He’s standing over me, the letter still in his hand and a smirk on his face.

“Daddy’s dead,” he says gleefully. “Oh, poor kitten, no wonder you couldn’t cook me a decent meal.”

I cry out as the belt cuts across my back. Tears immediately pool in my eyes, and I blink rapidly to force them back.

“Did you think I’d care that your father’s dead?” Troy is shouting as the belt cuts into my sensitive flesh again. I refuse to answer, and this only provokes him further. He grabs my arm and drags me off the couch, sending me flying to the ground with a backhand across my right cheek.

“Stupid fucking slut!” he screams, leaning down to grab a fistful of my hair and pull my head up to look at him. “Can’t you do anything right?” He kicks me in the stomach and I fall over once more, holding a protective hand against my stomach as he kicks me again.

I cough as I try to draw air into my lungs, but the small amount I receive is not enough. He’s on top of me now pinning me to the carpet on my back, his hands around my throat as he chokes the life out of me.  My fingers slap feebly at his hands, but I can feel the fight leaving my body. My lungs are starving, and I see white spots dancing in front of my eyes.

Troy releases me in disgust, and my hands replace his around my neck, gasping for air. I hear the front door slam, the motorbike start up and tear down the street. I lie there for five minutes… hours… hell, I don’t know, but it’s pitch black outside as I slowly roll to my stomach and get to my feet, wrapping an arm loosely around my midsection.

I make my way into the bathroom where I survey the damage in the mirror. My left eye is an almost pretty mix of blues and purples and there are angry red fingerprints around my throat.

Something stirs inside me, something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Anger.

It bubbles inside me until it blurs my vision. Sweat runs down my forehead as my fist finds the mirror, smashing my reflection again and again, until it lay in pieces in the sink. Blood drips into the sink, staining the perfect white porcelain. But I don’t feel it.

I don’t feel anything.

Tearing strips off an old shirt in the laundry hamper, I bandage my cut hands as best I can before making my way back to the living room.

As I stare around the room that once felt homey, my eyes are drawn to the letter Troy dropped on the floor. My father is dead. I’m all alone in the world, the final person from my former life gone in a single moment. But there’s always a silver lining, and the irony is not lost on me, that even in death, Daddy is there when I need him the most. I pick up the letter and re-read the bottom sentence:

In addition to the family home and bank account, Darius also left Saddles to your care. He knew you’d make the right decision.

Saddles, Daddy’s bar. One of the last connections to my former life, save for my sister, before I came to live in this waking nightmare. My own personal hell.

Determination fills me, and I’m struck with a new-found confidence as I clutch the letter to my heart.

Troy will never hurt me again.

Today…

I lift the half-empty glass to my lips and drain the beer that remains as I hold my hand up to the bartender, signaling for another.

It’s about ten o’clock on a Friday night, and the small-town Texan bar, Saddles, is overcrowded, hot and noisy. Some country band is playing on the stage at the opposite end of the room, but I can’t tell what song it is. I don’t really care, either. Instead, my plan is to keep my ass firmly planted to this hard bar stool, drink my beer, and ponder where my life went so wrong.

Married when I was just eighteen years old to a young, fresh-faced blonde girl, Grace had been everything I could want in a woman: virginal, sweet, and compassionate. It was no surprise my grandmother had conspired with her father to marry us off.

Unfortunately, like all marriages, we had our problems. Ever since I was just a kid, my grandmother told me stories of my heroic father who fought so bravely in World War Two to defend our country. I’d grown up with every intention of following in his footsteps.

Grace had never seen it that way, though. On the day I told her about my dream, she’d given me an ultimatum: The Army, or her.

That was just the way she was. I suspect she didn’t want to see me injured.

I tried to be a good husband, and put the idea of the Army from my mind. But after the attacks on September 11th, my mind was made up. Despite her tears and childish tantrums, I’d enlisted in the Army and left the next month to begin the standard ten-week boot camp training that would prepare me for life as a U.S soldier.

When I eventually left for Afghanistan a few years later, Grace tried to make the best of our situation. But she’d been so young and beautiful. She wanted to live, not be held down, waiting for a husband who would, as she put it so often, recklessly endanger his life, and may never return to her.

I’d been in Afghanistan just two months when I received the notice of intent to divorce.

I tore it up.

My parents died in a car accident when I was just a few months old, and I’d been raised by my maternal grandmother. She was a no-nonsense sort of woman, with a heart of gold and everyone loved her. It was a quiet day among the ranks when I was handed an obituary statement. She’d passed away of breast cancer the year after we arrived in Afghanistan.