Confessions on the 7:45(96)

“Faith?” she said. The word felt like fire in her throat. Then it was scream. “Faith?”

There was an explosion inside of her, like a crowd cheering in her veins, adrenaline pumping hot and fast, giving her strength and driving her forward.

She ran at her husband, pushing him back with the weight of her own body and landing on top of him, knocking the wind from him, leaving him struggling for air. Then she lifted her fist and punched him hard in the jaw. He raised his arms to ward her off.

“Selena,” he managed. “Stop.”

But she kept punching him, with everything she had, sobbing with the depth of her rage and her sorrow—not just for herself. For her mother, for Geneva, for Jacqueline, even for Pearl. Yes, Pearl. Who’d brought them all to this somehow, but only because she was formed in pain. Only because the fissures were there to exploit.

Exhaustion slowed her blows, and Graham just lay there, bleeding, arms covering his head. Her fists, her arms, were on fire with effort and impact, her breathing animalistic.

It was an easy thing for him to flip her. In one effortless motion, he was on top of her, looking down. The blood from his face dripped onto hers; she felt it on her face, trailing down her throat. He pinned her arms to the ground, his full weight on her middle. She was immobilized, powerless against his vastly superior strength. It was a surprise to feel so weak. She was breathless, arms and hands aching.

“Those times you hit me, Selena,” he said. He was breathing hard. “It was only because I let you. I deserved it. Hey, who knows, maybe I even liked it a little. You are super-hot when you’re angry. But that’s enough.”

She tried to get away from him, squirming and writhing beneath him. She was a doll, a child, her strength minuscule compared to his.

“Let go of me.” Her voice was a ragged shriek, unfamiliar.

Something dark crossed his face and in the next moment, he slapped her, openhanded across the face. Her jaw rattled; she saw stars as the pain radiated—the back of her head, her neck. The world seemed to halt. His face was twisted into an expression she’d never seen before. Was this the man the Vegas stripper saw? Geneva? Jacqueline?

There’s something inside me, he told her once. And when it breaks loose, I’m not the same person. She thought he was just making excuses for his bad behavior. But now she saw it. She tasted blood in her mouth.

“The boys,” she said.

She flashed on Stephen clinging. Oliver sulking at the table with her mother. Oh, god. Was she ever going to see them again? Who would care for them when she was gone? She started screaming, more like a roar of anger and sadness, rage at her own powerlessness.

“Shut the fuck up, Selena,” the stranger who used to be her husband hissed. “Don’t make me hit you again.”

He shifted his weight. And in one swift, direct movement, she brought her knee up hard into his groin. She watched his face freeze, go white. A kind of strangled cry escaped him, then he fell off of her, curling himself up into the fetal position, moaning.

“You fucker,” she managed. “I hate you.”

All he could do was groan.

She struggled to her feet, grabbed her phone and her charger and was about to run for the door. But then his hand was strong around her ankle, fingers digging into her flesh, tripping her. She fell hard, the phone cracking against the hard wood, then skittering away out of reach.

The wind knocked out of her, she struggled for breath, crawling toward the door. Then he was on top of her. He flipped her again, her head knocking against the wood, and then put strong hands on her neck and started to squeeze.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. She clawed at his hands, kicked her legs.

Her husband. She tried to say his name but couldn’t. No air, no sound.

“I gave you everything,” he said through gritted teeth. “You spoiled, ungrateful bitch.”

Her husband, eyes black with rage, was trying to kill her.

He was killing her.



FORTY

Selena

Around her things started to go gray, her vision a fish-eye lens. Her mind raced, gaze scanning the room for a weapon, a way out, a solution.

Finally, energy waning fast, her glance landed on the family portrait hanging on the wall over the console table. It’s all worth it, the photographer had said. I promise. Her babies. A kaleidoscope of memories played out in her mind—their laughing faces, the day Stephen dumped a bowl of mashed peas on his head, Oliver’s first steps, Stephen watching her as she fell asleep, his eyes slowly closing, the feel of their bodies against hers. They were slipping away from her. As hard as she’d tried, she’d failed them completely. Who would they be now without her, after this?

Selena felt herself go slack, the darkness encroaching, her limbs heavy and useless. She kept her eyes on the picture of the boys. She wanted their faces to be the last thing she saw.

Then, in a rush of air, Graham’s grip loosened, and blessed oxygen flowed back into her lungs.

Selena rasped, drawing it in, hands flying to her brutalized throat. She coughed, great retching bursts, bile rising. Graham still sat on top of her, frozen, stunned, his expression gone slack. His hands loose at his sides.

“Let me go.” Her voice was just a whisper.

He looked at her, eyes red and watering—from effort, from sadness, she didn’t know. There was a moment when she glimpsed him, the man she thought he was. Then he fell off to the side, landing heavily on the ground, head knocking hard.