The Bottom of the Sea

Part 1: Flight

I never thought I'd actually leave him until the day he choked me out.

'Choked me out.' It's such a tidy little phrase. I looked it up, there are YouTube videos on how to do it: martial arts bros all over the internet, choking each other out. It's a technique to be mastered, except when your piece-of-shit boyfriend does it to you. Then, it's something terrifying. He has taken you from this earth and into the void, if only for a few seconds — just to show you he can.

After all the fights, bruises, the flowers, tearful apologies and the broken arm two years ago, I was finally done. I saw the incident for what it was — rehearsal for the main event. The night he finally kills me.

That's not going to happen.

I also found something else through my internet research: information on strangulation from an organization for abused women. That's a more appropriately brutal phrase for what he did to me, with none of the friendly athleticism of the other term. I wasn't choked out, I was strangled. It means your violent partner is getting worse, and there's a pretty good chance you're going to die at his hands. Soon. It's time to go, the website said to me. Tick-tock.

So, I left. I really did this time. I still can't believe it, it's like some other person grabbed a carefully hidden duffel bag packed long ago, took a large chunk of his money, and peaced out. Just like that.

I went to his safe in the bedroom, entered the combination I memorized from sly observation over the past few months, and took out stacks of brightly coloured Canadian cash, the proceeds from drug busts over the past few years.

Shane is careful not to take too much at a time. But whenever Mr. Hero Cop kicked in the door of some meth operation, the cash sitting in neat bundles on beer-sticky tables had been too tempting to ignore. Not all of it makes its way back to the evidence room. Some of it ends up in his pocket. And now it's in mine.

If he wasn't going to go crazy before, he certainly is now. If he ever finds me, I'm dead. I know that.

Burn the toast, get killed.

Leave him and steal his money, get killed. In for a penny, in for a pound, my mother used to say.

I glanced sideways at the black bag on the passenger seat as I navigated the stomach-churning, sharp turns of the Nova Scotia road. I gave the bag a pat; felt the stacks inside. I spent all my savings on renting my new place, this was all I had in the world.

I planned my escape carefully over months, waiting for Shane's annual boys' weekend in Vegas. It's been a tradition with his cop buddies forever, no wives or girlfriends allowed. 'What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.' As if I give a shit about what he does on his vacation, and with whom. I'm long past caring about stuff like that.

The morning after the choking incident — sorry, the strangulation — let's call it what it was, shall we — he couldn't quite meet my eyes. Instead, he glanced quickly at the faint bruising around my collarbone, the bright red splotches that bloomed overnight in the whites of my eyes and he had the decency to look ashamed. He left marks this time. He's usually careful not to do that.

"I'll call you," he mumbled, hefting his bag over his shoulder as he headed out. He paused in the doorway before leaving, speaking to the floor. "I want to make some changes, babe. I've gone too far, I know that. Things got out of hand this time. When I come back, I'll look into getting some help for my temper. I promise."

"Do you mean it?"

He nodded and turned towards the door. "Be good," he said, a sad smile crossing his face. It's meant to be funny. Of course, I would be good. What else would I be? Then, he was gone.