D.D. pushed her way through the first wave of jostling adults and curious children. She did her best to keep focused, but still caught phrases such as “shots fired…” “heard squealing like a stuck pig…” “Why, I just saw her unloading groceries not four hours before…”

“Excuse me, excuse me, pardon me. Police sergeant. Buddy, out of the way.” She broke through, ducking under the yellow tape roping off portions of the sidewalk, and finally arrived at the epicenter of crime-scene chaos.

The house before her was a gray-painted triple-decker boasting a broad-columned front porch and large American flag. Both front doors were wide open, enabling better traffic flow of investigative personnel, as well as the ME’s metal gurney.

D.D. noted delicate lace curtains framed in bay windows on either side of the front door. In addition to the American flag, the porch contained four cheerful pots of red geraniums, half a dozen blue folding chairs, and a hanging piece of slate that had been painted with more red geraniums and the bright yellow declaration: Welcome.

Yep, definitely something worse than gun-toting, tennis-shoe-tossing drug dealers.

D.D. sighed, put on her game face, and approached the uniformed officer stationed at the base of the front steps. She rattled off her name and badge number. In turn, the officer dutifully recorded the info in the murder book, then jerked his head down to the bin at his feet.

D.D. obediently fished out booties and a hair covering. So it was that kind of crime scene.

She climbed the steps slowly, keeping to one side. They appeared recently stained, a light Cape Cod gray that suited the rest of the house. The porch was homey, well kept. Clean enough that she suspected it had been recently broom swept. Perhaps after unloading groceries, a household member had tidied up?

It would’ve been better if the porch had been dirty, covered in dust. That might have yielded shoe treads. That might have helped catch whoever did the bad thing D.D. was about to find inside.

She took another breath right outside the door, inhaled the scent of sawdust and drying blood. She heard a reporter calling for a statement. She heard the snap of a camera, the roar of a media chopper, and white noise all around. Gawkers behind, detectives ahead, reporters above.

Chaos: loud, smelly, overwhelming.

Her job now was to make it right.

She got to it.

“I’m thirsty,” he says.

“What would you like?” I offer.

“Woman, bring me a drink, or I’ll break your fucking face.”

He doesn’t sound angry. That’s how these things often go. Sometimes, the storm arrives quickly. One moment he’s watching TV, the next he’s tearing apart the living room. Other times, he lingers on the precipice. Say or do the right thing, and calm will be restored. Say or do the wrong thing, on the other hand…

I get off the couch. It’s Thursday evening, an ungodly hot and humid August night in Boston. The kind of night best spent at a beach or at a giant swimming pool. Of course, neither one is an option for us. We’ve spent the afternoon inside, watching the History Channel while basking in air-conditioning. I’d hoped a quiet evening might be soothing for him. Now I don’t know.

Inside the kitchen, I debate my options. A drink order involves a vast array of land mines: First, guess the proper beverage. Then select the right glass/mug/cup. Not to mention ice or no ice, straw or no straw, cocktail napkin or coaster.

Once, I wouldn’t’ve refused such a belligerent demand. I would’ve demanded nice words, nice voice. I’m not your servant, I would’ve reminded him. You will treat me with respect.

These things happen, though. Not all at once. But bit by bit, moment by moment, choice by choice. There are pieces of yourself that, once you give away, you can never get back again.

I go with the blue mug, a recent favorite, and tap water-less mess when he inevitably tosses the contents into my face. My hands are already shaking. I take several calming breaths. He hasn’t gone over the edge yet. Remember, he hasn’t gone over the edge. Not yet.

I carry the mug into the living room, where I set it on the glass coffee table while watching him beneath my lowered eyelids. If his feet remain flat on the floor, I will continue with appeasement. If he’s already twitching, perhaps tapping a foot, or rolling his shoulder in the way that often precedes a sudden, hard-thrown punch, then I will bolt. Get down the hall, grab the Ativan, and dope him up.

I’m telling you, there are pieces of yourself that, once you give away, you can never get back again.

He picks up the mug, feet stable, shoulders loose. He takes an experimental sip, pauses…

Sets it down again.

I have just resumed breathing, when he grabs the plastic mug and slams it against the side of my head.

I 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 too hard. 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.