Break Down

“No,” I thought.  “This not happening.  No, no, no.” 

My car was breaking down again and at the worst possible time.  I was finally getting away from my husband and there was smoke flowing freely from under my hood. 

The Xanax I took before leaving the house was quickly wearing off.  Like fast enough that it didn’t even have time to start working. 

What if he caught up to me?  What if I don’t get away?  The months of preparation and the smuggling away of small bills and the security of a new identity…  God, why would this happened now?  Did Brady somehow find out what I was doing?  That I was leaving?  I couldn’t stand to cover up one more bruise.  I couldn’t handle one more Urgent Care trip because of another fall down the stairs.  This was my chance.  My future.  I knew it totally was over when Brady’s Chevy rolled up behind me. 

I prayed for the first time in years.  I prayed that Brady would stay in his car, that he would let me go.  But more than that, I prayed he would go to jail and not hurt anyone else ever again.  When I opened my eyes, the Chevy was slowing inching toward my driver side door.  A tear rolled down my cheek as the passenger window opened. 

“Ma’am, are you okay?  Do you need help?” 

I nearly screamed.  It wasn’t Brady.  I thought my prayers had been answered until I saw the gun. 


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