I pretended to be unconscious on my living room floor and listened to my husband say on the phone, "It's done... soon we'll both be gone." -yilux

 

The handle didn't turn on the bathroom door. It turned on the entryway.

I first heard Steven's footsteps, quick and uneven. Behind them came the click of short heels on the wooden floor, a woman breathing like someone who was already regretting it.

"Where are they?" she asked.

"On the floor. They should be out completely," Steven replied. "I just need her trash, dishes, and phone."

I squeezed Tommy's hand tighter. The operator was still on the line. I whispered to him that he was back and that he wasn't alone.

"The officers are already coming into your street," he told me. "Don't open that door for anything."

The woman spoke again, closer this time.

—You said there wasn't going to be a child involved in this.

For a second, I felt breathless in a different way. It wasn't pure remorse. It was fear. Fear of having gone too far.

Steven cursed under his breath. I heard a chair scrape, then something hit the table.

"Find the bag," he said. "And clean the glass."

Then I understood why he had returned. He didn't come back for us. He came back for the evidence.

The bathroom doorknob rattled violently. Tommy shuddered against me. I hugged him as best I could and yelled, no longer bothering to keep my voice down, that the police were on their way.

Everything broke down at the same time.

Steven knocked once on the door. The woman gasped. Outside, someone yelled "Police!" A second later, the front door swung open.

I heard heavy footsteps, short commands, a plate breaking, and Steven running toward the kitchen like a cornered animal. The woman started to cry.

The operator told me we could leave, but my legs still felt like lead. I couldn't stand up. I could barely breathe.

The bathroom door opened from the outside.

An officer crouched down in front of Tommy and me. Behind him, I saw Steven lying face down on the dining room floor, a police officer's knee between his shoulders. A few feet away, a blonde woman in a beige coat had her hands cuffed behind her back.

The plate of chicken was still on the table. Tommy's little sweatshirt was still hanging on his chair.

And that's when I knew we had survived.

The ambulance smelled of plastic, alcohol, and cold sweat. Tommy was on the stretcher next to it. He tried to keep his eyes open every time I said his name.

I wanted to touch her face, fix her hair, promise her something. But my arms were so heavy I could barely move my fingers.

A paramedic told me they had acted in time. That they were going to stabilize us. That I should keep talking.

So I spoke. I said my name. I said my son's name. I said my husband's name as if naming him that way could transform him into something else. Into someone explainable. Into someone less monstrous.