Janet

René yelled at me the entire ride home. When the car stopped, he grabbed me by the collar and yanked me out. I lost my balance, scraping my knees against the concrete. I barely made it to my feet before he shoved me again once we were inside the house. The door slammed behind us.

"René, why are you doing this?" I backed away slowly.

He didn't answer. He just kept coming.

That's when I remembered his leg—the gash still stitched from when he kicked in the bathroom door. I lifted my foot and drove my heel into it with everything I had.

He screamed. Blood immediately began soaking through his pant leg.

"You bitch!" he roared.

I ran for the stairs, but he caught me halfway. He flipped me onto my back and slapped me so hard I tasted blood. His weight crushed the air from my lungs.

"René—get off me, please," I gasped.

"You didn't mind when that dyke was on you," he sneered.

I screamed. I begged. He didn't stop.

The smell of whiskey and cologne overwhelmed me. I felt trapped in my own body, powerless, terrified—until it was over. I sobbed as he finally moved away.

I tried to crawl upstairs, shaking, barely able to stand. I thought he was done.

I was wrong.

He chased me down the hallway. I reached the bedroom first and tried to lock the door, but his foot wedged inside. He shoved it open, sending me flying across the floor. My head slammed against the bedframe.

Pain exploded through me.

He kicked me again and again until I curled into myself, gasping. Then he grabbed my arm and forced me upright. I leaned against the bed, rocking, crying.

I looked at him and didn't recognize him anymore. The man I loved was gone. This was a monster.

"Don't look at me!" he shouted.

I flinched.

"You look at me like you're afraid," he continued. "I'll give you something to be afraid of."

He went to the drawer and pulled out his gun.

"René... I'm your wife," I whispered, shaking.

He laughed. "The girl I fucked last night was better."

My mind went numb.

This is how I die, I thought. At the hands of my husband.

I was alone.

Then I saw her.

Shawn stood just beyond him, finger to her lips, shaking her head slightly.

I got you, baby.

I stared back at René, the barrel of the gun aimed straight at me.

"Did you ever love me?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I wanted to fuck you. You got attached. You had money. Why not?"

That was when Shawn moved.

She rushed him, swinging the bat into his leg. He crashed into the dresser. The gun flew from his hand and landed on the bed beside me.

Gil and Preston burst into the room.

I grabbed the gun.

"You fucking bitch!" René screamed.

Shawn raised the bat again, but Gil caught it midair.

"No," he said firmly. "He's not worth you going to prison."

"Maybe he is," I said.

Everyone froze.

My hands shook as I aimed the gun at René. Tears streamed down my face. My chest heaved.

"J... you don't mean that," Shawn said softly, hands raised. "Baby, think this through."

"Oh, I have," I said.

I stared at René.

"I thought about it every time you came home drunk. Every time you hurt me. Every time you raped me."

My voice broke—but I didn't lower the gun.

"Tonight," I shouted, "I thought about it."

I shook my head slowly.

"Now look who has the gun."

He smirked.

"Your timid ass doesn't have the balls to pull the trigger."

The gun went off in my hands.

The sound was deafening, freezing everyone in the room. The bullet tore into the dresser beside him, splintering wood. René screamed and collapsed to the floor, curling into himself, hands thrown up in surrender.

I stepped closer.

Now he was staring down the barrel.

My hands were steady this time. Completely still. He knew—I wasn't bluffing.

Shawn moved closer to me, slowly, carefully.

"J," she said, her voice trembling, "I know this man has hurt you. I know what he's done. But if you do this, he wins. He's already dead inside. Don't let him take you away from me again, baby. He's not worth it."

Her words cracked something open in me.

I tightened my grip on the gun, rage burning through my chest. I wanted him to feel what I had felt. I wanted him to hurt the way I hurt.

Then she touched my arm.

Everything shattered.

A sob ripped out of me before I could stop it. My body shook as the reality settled in. I hated him. I wanted him gone—but I couldn't do it. I couldn't become him.

Slowly, I lowered the gun.

That was the moment we let our guard down.

René lunged forward, ripping the gun from my hands in one violent motion. Before anyone could react, he had it raised—aimed straight at me.

The gun went off again.

Shawn didn't hesitate. She threw herself over me, and we hit the floor hard, tangled together. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs.

Gil grabbed the bat and swung with everything he had. It cracked against René's back. He cried out and pitched forward, the gun slipping from his hand and skidding across the floor to Preston's feet.

Preston scooped it up instantly and aimed it at him.

"Shawn—you're bleeding!"

"Am I?" she asked, almost surprised.

I lifted her sleeve. The bullet had grazed her shoulder—blood, but not deep.

"You threw yourself in front of a gun for me?" I whispered, staring at her.

"I'd die for you," she said, touching my face.

Shawn glanced down at her arm, then at René, who was groaning on the floor.
"Fucking drunk," she muttered. "Can't even shoot straight."

She stood and kicked him in the side. He curled in on himself, coughing and gasping.

"Bitch," Shawn said, holding her shoulder as she walked past him.

She joined Gil.

"I hit a home run on that bitch," Gil said, lifting the bat again.

"Yeah," Shawn replied. "You fucking did."

I stood there for a moment, silent, my body shaking.

"Ms. Jackson, we need to call the police," Preston said carefully.

I shook my head. "No. This can't get out. Not like this."

"Well then what are we supposed to do?" Gil asked.

I walked into the closet and came back with a yellow envelope. René was slumped against the dresser, barely upright. I approached him slowly and pulled out the papers.

"Sign them," I said, tossing a pen at him.

"Fuck you," he sneered. "You're mine."

Before I could respond, Preston stepped forward. He grabbed René by the hair, slammed his head lightly—but firmly—back against the dresser, and pressed the gun downward.

"She wasn't asking," Preston said calmly.

I handed him the papers. René's hands trembled as he signed every page.

Preston took the documents, handed them back to me, and straightened.
"You will not contact her again except through attorneys or the court."

He turned to leave.

"Oh—and you can keep the house," I said, walking toward Gil and Shawn.

Shawn stayed behind for a second. I didn't look back.

Gil reached for my hand, and I took it.

"Did you see me being brave for you?" he said quietly as we moved down the hallway.

Shawn noticed how badly I was hurting—her shoulder bleeding, my steps uneven. Without a word, she lifted me into her arms and carried me to the car.

I looked back at the house one last time.

"Please get us out of here, Preston."

"With pleasure, Ms. Jackson."