[ TT ] You finally got your revenge on them . But even after it all , you do n't feel any better .

He hit me. More than once, more than the amount of times he promised he would never do so again. I still remember the first time he spun and directed his anger on me. 
 My world had toppled and my vision became speckled with bright pops of light. I had instinctively raised my hand to my face to feel the sting of where his palm had landed. I remember the fury in his eyes had quickly dissolved and gave way to concern and confusion. He apologized, profusely. I was wary of the caution he was using, like he did n't trust me to forgive him. Was n't it me who should have been distrustful? And I was distrustful from then on. When I told him I was pregnant I had made sure not to do so in the kitchen where there were plates and frying pans, or in our bedroom which was situated at the top of the stairs. 
 I suppose it's for the best that the baby is n't here, but selfishly I wanted it with all of my heart. I wanted something to love that would n't strike back at me. 
 
 
 The day he took that hope away from me was a beautiful day, or so the weather man would say. Autumn was in full swing and a deep chill had crept its way through the walls of our house during the night. I remember that I woke up earlier than usual on account of the cold and Jonathan was already awake. He asked for me to get changed into something nice and meet him downstairs. By `` something nice'' I knew he meant his favorite dress of mine, a white summer dress that when I turned would swirl like cream in coffee. When I came down the steps he was waiting for me once again. I felt like a child, walking in the large footsteps left in the snow from some stranger ahead. My path was always being laid down for me by this stranger. I sat down at the shabby kitchen table that he was standing next to. I felt my stomach tighten, and a part of me wondered if it was the baby I was feeling. Jonathan had never once prepared any sort of food or drink for me, and here he was motioning for me to eat some biscuits and tea. The tea smelled like grass and dirt. I told him no, and to this day I am convinced that it was my baby that had hijacked my voice to say that once forgotten word. He screamed, he threw chairs, he spat in my face. But peculiarly enough, he did n't lay a finger on me. I hung onto my denial of this curious gesture of biscuits and tea and the more I refused the stronger I felt. At one point he left the room and returned holding a gun. Suddenly my no's sounded like questions, and the resolve in my eyes had turned from steel to porcelain. After counting to three he killed our dog, Freddy. After counting to two I drank the tea. The rest of the day had been spent in the bathroom leaning over the toilet bowl emptying everything I had eaten in days prior. I had bled through my panties and Jonathans favorite summer dress is buried in a landfill somewhere by now. 
 
 
 The next morning I brought coffee to Jonathan in bed. I kissed him on the forehead and told him breakfast was waiting for him downstairs. I waited in the kitchen and patiently listened for his steps. He took his sweet ass time. When he did finally emerge into the kitchen I took a few seconds before squeezing the trigger. I wanted to savor the expression on his face. I had dreamed so many times of what it would look like, but I could never have guessed just how delicious it really felt to see his eyes widen in terror and his face reel back in preparation. He head damn near exploded, which was not what I was expecting. I had imagined just a quick ribbon of blood to shoot out from the back of his head, not for his face to disappear. But apparently what I used was called a.44 magnum and is pretty powerful. Magnum used to make me think of ice cream. 
 
 
 
 I never struggled when the cops put me in cuffs. I never pleaded innocence or cried out any sort of explanation. I was a caged animal once again, sedated and docile. Days passed by me like seconds, and my thoughts became weak and quiet. Emotions stirred and wrestled themselves far away from me, like on a stage for me to watch. I was numb. Until one day a strange man came to visit me in my cell and introduce himself as Doctor Anderson. Or maybe it was Andrews. He asked if I knew that I was with child. I never spoke a word, but suddenly voices were roaring in my head. How could it be possible? How had it survived the tea and abortion pill concoction that my deadbeat husband had forced me to drink? How could I not sense a life growing inside of me? 
 He was right though. Roughly 7 months later I had a beautiful baby girl. I named her Elizabeth, but the nurses told me that her new parents had probably already chosen a different name for her. I never even got to meet the couple who would raise my baby, probably because they did n't want to hear a murderous woman beg to keep their child or be part of her life as she grew up. Which is what I would have done of course, had I the chance. 
 
 
 
 Every day I mourn the loss of my husband. I sob late into night until my pillow is covered in snot and is wet with tears. I miss him so much, because if he was still alive I would still have my girl. I am sentenced to grow old as a mother without a daughter. I had my revenge, but even in his death he still has me in his grip.
