The Bottom of the Sea

Part 32: Detente

A/N: Trigger warning: emotional and physical violence, intimate partner violence

I knew the moment was coming and now it was here. Shane was standing right in front of me, wilder and angrier than I'd ever seen him. But the shock of his appearance made my fear fall away for a moment. "Oh, Shane." I stood up slowly, still clutching the knife in my trembling hands. "What happened to you?"

Everything stopped, and all was quiet. He was twitching and clutching his side; every so often he would swipe at his left ear and spin around, looking like a dog pawing at an injury. For a moment, it was as if he forgot I was in the room.

"Shane!" Illuminated by a sliver of moonlight, he turned to me, blinking. There was nothing behind his eyes and for a moment, it was like he didn't know me.

"Stop it, you bitch!" He turned and shouted to the darkness and I was startled to realize he wasn't talking to me. He kept mumbling something over and over again, but I couldn't quite make it out.

I put my hands behind my back to hide the knife and approached him slowly. "You're hurt. Let me call an ambulance."

"You're the one who's going to need a fucking ambulance. Better yet, a hearse." He turned back to me, recognition and hate returning to his eyes.

"Do what you have to do." I said it with a strength I didn't feel. His nostrils flared and he began breathing heavily as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Good, I thought. I wanted him off-balance and out of control.

"You're going to die tonight," he said, reading my mind. "And I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."

"And you'll kill your child too? I don't think so." I took one hand and smoothed it over my belly, revealing the bump.

His laugh was a snarl. "Don't even try, bitch. I know it's not mine."

"It is. I was pregnant when I got here. I don't care if you believe me, it's the truth."

He shook his head sharply, but I knew from the look on his face he was doing calculations to see if it could possibly be true. Suddenly, a cold wind seemed to blow in from nowhere and the back door slammed shut, loud enough to make both of us jump.

Shane clasped his hands over his ears. "How are you doing this?" He was full on screaming.

"It's not me. It's the house."

He suddenly crossed the room in two strides and grabbed me by the back of the neck. "Bullshit," he growled. He smelled of vomit, fear and something else, something dark and rotten. His face was scarred and grotesque. "How did you rig the window in your room to explode in my face?"

The terror returned to me then, my old familiar friend. I gripped the knife tightly in my hand so I wouldn't drop it. Before I could lose my nerve, I took my shot, swinging the knife as hard as I could. I aimed for the side he'd been clutching earlier, taking a chance that he'd hurt his ribs.

His cop reflexes were still sharp, he let me go and swiftly blocked the move. I wasn't able to drive the knife home, but I managed to slash a deep cut on his hand. He yelped, giving me time to make for the back door. I threw it open and ran outside, limping on the hurt ankle. I looked around for signs of someone, but it was like I was alone in the world.

Time slowed down. I could hear him bellowing behind me; every nightmare I'd ever had come to life. I ran in the dark, my bare feet sliding on the damp grass, just trying to make it to the road. Maybe I could flag down a passing car or make it to the elderly couple a few miles up the road.

But that didn't happen. He quickly overpowered me by grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking my head back.

I looked at the moon, impossibly big and bright yellow in the deep sapphire sky. Others were looking at the same moon that night, all across Nova Scotia — lovers holding hands, parents with their kids. I was standing on the lawn with my head pulled backwards so far, I thought it might snap right off my neck. Shane was screaming obscenities at me, but they all just faded away as I stared at the moon. It was beautiful. I'd live to see another one, I told myself. I had to try.