Fear Leads Us On

She kneeled on the floor, her bruised palms pressed against the carpet. Her sides were battered and beaten. Purple and bluish, black marks plagued her once pink skin. Tears rolled from her eyes onto her cheeks and then dripped to the floor. She had been here many times before. This place of pain and embarrassed stupor was a very familiar spot to her. She lifted her arms off the soft floor and let her back press against the coffee table, her legs bent beneath her. She sat in silence pondering her thoughts. He had slipped into the next room to wash his fists, leaving her alone in the den. Warm, red blood trickled from her bottom lip. She slowed her breathing in order to concentrate on what she knew needed to be done. She closed her eyes and let herself drift away to a more comfortable place. She flipped through the various choices she could make and weighed the two most prominent options.

The first was to get up, clean the mess her frightful husband had made, clean herself up and then make dinner for the two of them. The second option was to lift herself off the floor, cross the room and grab the gun in the desk drawer. She wanted so badly to just lie there and sleep her life away. She wished to take her last breath and slip into the unknown. However, she knew that was not an option and no matter how much she wished for her pain to subside, it would never leave her. Though this man beat the life out of her, she regrettable still adored him. Passion drove her heart to pound in her chest for him.

More tears flowed from her eyes and she let little gasps escape her blood stained lips. For the very first time since her husband began hurting her, she felt afraid. Not afraid of him and what he could and would do. She was terrifyingly afraid of herself. She was tired. Tired of being on the floor, tired of the bruises, tired of the screams, and most of all tired of the tears. This exhaustion is what made her fear herself more than anything and scared her into more tears and goose bumps which ran up and down her spine. She feared what this exhaustion would allow her to do. She feared what this state of being would ultimately make her capable of.

Opening her eyes she placed her delicate hand on the floor beside her. With what little energy she had left, she pushed herself to her feet. She knew what she had to do. She was terrified and the fear revealed itself on her beaten body. Frail and broken she crossed the room lightly and slowly. She slid the heavy wooden drawer open and stared into it. Her tears fell down onto the wooden desk. She slipped her petite hand into the drawer and reached until she found the item she was seeking. Grabbing it firmly, she pulled it into eye sight and let it weigh in her hands. The gun felt cold and rugged to her then gradually it became warm to the touch. She twisted around and leaned her back against the desk. She was now facing the room her husband had disappeared into.

As he reentered the den, she raised her arms and pointed the heavy gun at his chest. A smug, doubtful smile crossed his face, but she had, had enough. He walked slowly closer to her. Warm tears rolled down her cheeks as fear froze her body. She was no longer afraid of him. Instead, she let the rushing energy of her fear guide the gun that she held in her bruised hands. She was finally ready to see how tough this man really was. Getting a hold on herself, she squeezed the trigger and put three hard metal bullets in his chest.