1. Blood on Her Hands #2
I should get up. Clean myself up at least. The blood is everywhere—on my dress, my arms, my face. I must look like something from a horror movie. The thought of looking in a mirror makes me shudder, but I can’t stay like this. Can’t let anyone see me like this.
But movement is impossible. My body is leaden, pinned in place by the gravity of what I’ve done. By indecision. By fear. By guilt.
A thousand possible futures play out in my mind, none of them good.
Powder stretches again, this time standing up in my lap and kneading my thighs with her paws. The slight pain of her claws through my thin dress provides another anchor to reality. She headbutts my chin, demanding attention, completely unaware that she’s smearing blood through her fur.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar to my own ears. “I’m so sorry.”
I’m not sure who I’m apologizing to—Lucas, Micah, Powder, myself. Maybe all of them. Maybe none of them. The words are inadequate, useless, but they’re all I have.
The sun finally reaches Lucas’s body. The blood looks almost black in the golden light, his skin waxy and pale. I force myself to really look at him, to acknowledge what I’ve done, what can never be undone.
In that moment of clarity, I realize I have to make a choice. I can’t sit here forever, paralyzed by indecision while the sun tracks across the sky. Whatever I decide to do next will change everything—my life, Micah’s life, the lives of everyone connected to Lucas.
The magnitude of that decision presses down on me, making it hard to breathe again.
My gaze drifts back to Lucas’s face, so peaceful now, as if he’s merely sleeping.
But I know better. I know the violence that led to this moment, the years of abuse that culminated in this final, fatal confrontation.
I know the monster that lurked behind his handsome face, the rage that drove him to break down Micah’s door, to try to kill me rather than let me go.
The sun continues its relentless journey across the floor, time slipping further away while I sit surrounded by the consequences of my desperate act of survival.
Soon someone will come looking. Micah will return from work.
A neighbor might see the broken door and decide to investigate, or maybe even the police if someone calls them instead.
I have to decide. Now. Before the choice is taken from me.
Powder stands, turning to face Lucas’s body. Her tail twitches as she stares at him, as if trying to understand why he’s not moving. Then she looks back at me, her blue eyes full of feline intelligence, and meows softly.
The sound echoes in the silent apartment, a reminder that life goes on, that the world continues turning even when it feels like everything has stopped. I take a deep breath, tasting blood on my tongue.
Whatever I decide to do next, I can’t do it huddled in this corner, covered in blood. I have to move. Have to act. Have to face the consequences of this terrible, necessary thing I’ve done.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, though I know he can’t hear me. Then I drop my head and bury it in Powder’s fur.
Twenty minutes earlier
Despite the cold January temperatures, sunlight streams through Micah’s kitchen window, warming my face as I whisk cookie batter in a large ceramic bowl. The bright rays are a rare sight during an Ohio winter when the sky usually maintains a stubborn slate-gray from November through March.
A perfect day for baking.
The kitchen counter wears a light dusting of flour like fresh snow, dotted with measuring cups and mixing bowls. Behind me, the oven preheats with a steady hum, promising the comfort of homemade chocolate chip cookies. The scent of softened butter and brown sugar already perfumes the air.
I catch my reflection in the window above the sink.
My red curls have escaped from my messy bun, and my freckles are stark against winter-pale skin.
For the first time in months, my movements flow with an easy grace, shoulders relaxed instead of hunched in anticipation of the next blow.
The bruises that once marked my wrists have faded, no longer visible now.
No need to hide them under long sleeves anymore.
My casual dress swishes around my knees as I move between the counter and the sink.
Tiny purple flowers scatter across the cream-colored fabric—the kind of feminine, delicate thing I would never have dared wear around Lucas.
All this exposed skin would have only invited more bruises, more fingers digging into flesh to leave their mark.
But Micah? His quiet compliments make me feel pretty instead of like prey. I smile to myself as his words run through my mind again.
“That dress suits you,” he’d said just this morning before heading to work, voice gruff but eyes warm. Such simple words, yet they’ve made me smile all day.
His apartment has become my sanctuary these past few months.
Not just a temporary refuge from Lucas, but a real home.
Micah’s presence infuses every corner with safety—from his worn leather recliner to the gentle giant of a cat currently sprawled in a patch of sunlight.
Even now, Powder’s rhythmic purring provides a soothing counterpoint to my movements in the kitchen.
I hum softly as I work, some half-remembered lullaby my grandmother used to sing. The wooden spoon makes satisfying circles through the thick batter. Everything feels peaceful, ordinary, right .
A sharp knock shatters the quiet afternoon.
I freeze, spoon suspended over the bowl. Batter drips slowly, like a countdown timer. No one ever knocks on Micah’s door. It could be a neighbor, but everyone around Micah should be at work at this hour.
Another knock follows, more insistent this time. The peaceful bubble bursts, reality rushing back in with the force of a tsunami. My heart accelerates from lazy contentment to a frantic gallop in the space of a breath.
I set down the spoon with trembling hands, barely registering the clatter against the edge of the bowl. The apartment falls silent save for the blood rushing in my ears. My bare feet make no sound as I creep toward the door, movements automatic after years of learning to move quietly.
The peephole offers a distorted fish-eye view of the hallway. My breath catches painfully in my throat.
Lucas.
His rigid stance screams anger, shoulders squared beneath his expensive suit jacket and wool coat.
My soon-to-be ex-husband is always careful about appearances, so concerned with maintaining the perfect facade.
But I recognize the rage simmering beneath that polished surface.
His icy blue eyes seem to stare directly through the peephole, through me.
I stumble backward, lungs struggling to draw air. My fingers fumble for the phone on the counter, muscle memory bringing up Micah’s number. The call goes straight to voicemail. Of course—he mentioned an important meeting today. No interruptions.
The pounding resumes, accompanied by Lucas’s voice. He starts with that deceptively reasonable tone I know too well.
“Naomi? I know you’re in there. Open the door. We need to talk.”
Shit. How did he figure out I was here?
I press myself against the wall beside the door, as if I could somehow melt into it. Disappear completely.
“Come on, baby. Don’t be difficult. I just want to work things out.”
When I remain silent, his patience cracks. The false sweetness evaporates.
“Open the fucking door, Naomi. Now.”
Each impact of his fist makes the door shudder in its frame. I can picture his face contorting with fury, that familiar transformation from a charming businessman to a terrifying monster. My legs want to give out, but terror keeps me upright.
The next blow comes with so much force the wood splinters around the lock. Again. Again. The door frame fractures, then gives way entirely.
Lucas storms in, filling the doorway with his presence. His carefully styled hair has fallen across his forehead, suit jacket crooked. The perfect mask finally slipping to reveal the rage beneath.
I back toward the kitchen, eyes darting for escape routes. There are none. The living room window leads to a four-story drop. The bedroom is a dead end. The only exit is the one he’s blocking.
“Look at you,” he sneers, taking in my dress, my bare legs, my exposed throat. “Playing house with my father. Did you really think you could just walk away from me? That I’d let you?”
“Lucas, please—”
“Shut up.” He advances slowly, methodically. A predator toying with cornered prey. “You ungrateful little bitch. I gave you everything. A beautiful home. Designer clothes. The best of everything. And this is how you repay me? You shack up with my dad?”
“No, you didn’t,” I manage to say though my voice trembles. “My trust paid for all of that.”
His eyes narrow with furious intent. My back hits the kitchen counter. Nowhere left to retreat.
“When are you going to learn?” His laugh holds no humor. “And turning my own father against me. You’re ruining my life, babe. Again. Just like when you couldn’t give me children.”
The familiar guilt and shame rises up, threatening to drown me. I’d lied about that. As soon as he showed me his true nature, I knew I could never have children with him. So I had an IUD put in and said I was infertile. He believed me.
“That wasn’t my fault,” I whisper. Then louder: “None of this is my fault.”
His face contorts. “Everything is your fault.”
Lucas lunges for me. I try to dodge him, but he’s too fast. I don’t escape his reach.
His fingers dig into my shoulders as he yanks me forward, then slams me back against the counter.
Pain explodes through my hip where it connects with the sharp corner.
The impact knocks the air from my lungs in a harsh gasp.
His fist crashes into my cheekbone before I can catch my breath. Stars burst behind my eyes. Another blow splits my lip, blood flooding my mouth. It drips onto my dress, staining the delicate purple flowers crimson.
“You think you can leave me?” Each word punctuates another hit. “You’re mine.”
I try to curl inward, to protect my face, but he grabs my hair and yanks my head back.
The fluorescent kitchen light swims above me, too bright, too harsh.
His knee drives up into my stomach with crushing force.
My legs buckle as pain radiates through my core.
Only his grip on my hair keeps me from collapsing completely.
The batter bowl teeters on the counter edge, knocked askew in the struggle. A small, disconnected part of my mind mourns those unmade cookies. Such a simple, normal thing—baking on a rare sunny winter afternoon. Now shattered like everything else Lucas touches.
His fingers dig into my throat, crushing my windpipe. I claw at his hands, but his grip only tightens. My chest burns, desperate for air that won’t come. Each attempt to inhale feels like swallowing glass.
Lucas’s face looms above me, his features twisted with hatred. His ice-blue eyes bore into mine as he squeezes harder. The pressure builds in my head, blood pounding in my ears. Dark spots dance at the edges of my vision, growing larger with each passing second.
My legs kick out weakly, seeking purchase against the cabinets. The counter edge digs into my back as I thrash. Panic floods my system—raw, primal terror obliterates all thought except the desperate need to breathe.
He’s going to kill me. This is it. The day I lose my life to my husband’s rage.
My fumbling hands knock against the counter, sending measuring cups clattering to the floor. The batter bowl teeters closer to the edge, but it doesn’t fall. My lungs scream for oxygen. The kitchen light above blurs and doubles as consciousness starts to fade.
I’m going to die here. In this sunny kitchen where I felt safe just moments ago. The thought brings a surge of rage that cuts through the fog of fear. If I could just grab my phone, I could call for help.
My fingers brush the counter searching for where I left it. But I find something else instead—the handle of a knife I used to cut butter earlier.
The darkness creeps further into my vision. My grip on the knife handle is weak, unsteady. Lucas’s hands squeeze tighter still, his thumbs crushing my larynx. The world starts to gray as my oxygen-starved brain begins to shut down.
The next few seconds blur together in a chaos of motion and sound. His hand tightens further, squeezing the life out of me. Pain explodes across my cheekbone as his fist connects again.
I blindly thrust the knife forward. Desperate to survive. To end this nightmare.
The pressure on my throat releases. Lucas stumbles backward, looking down at the blade protruding from his chest with an almost comical expression of surprise. Like he can’t quite process what he’s seeing.
“You…” he manages. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth.
He takes another staggering step, then his knees buckle. He pitches forward, falling heavily against me. A wet warmth spreads across my dress before I realize it’s his blood. With a choked cry, I shove his body away. He crashes to the floor with a loud thump.
Blood pools beneath him, creeping across the floor in a steadily widening circle. His eyes stare at nothing.
I slide down the cabinets until I hit the floor, pulling my knees tight against my chest. My mind fragments, unable to process the scene before me. The cheerful kitchen. The half-mixed cookie batter. The shattered door frame. Lucas’s body, so terribly still.
These elements cannot possibly exist in the same reality. Yet here they are, colliding in my own personal nightmare.