One Second of Silence

I never thought the night would come. The night where I stood in the hallway, my bare feet cold against the floorboards, the weight of a gun unfamiliar in my hands. It was heavier than I imagined. Real. Solid. Like the decision I hadn’t yet made.

The house was silent, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic buzz of the ceiling fan. I could hear his breathing from the bedroom. Deep. Loud. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like he hadn't crushed mine over and over again.

My fingers trembled.

I hadn’t planned for it to go this far. Not really. I bought the gun two weeks ago and hid it behind the broken tiles in the laundry room. I had to lie to the man who sold it to me. Said it was for safety. A woman living alone. A lie smooth as silk.

Tonight was the worst it’s ever been.

He threw a plate. It shattered next to my head. I didn’t flinch. I think that made him angrier. My silence was always gasoline. He grabbed my wrist and twisted it until I cried out. Then he smiled, kissed my cheek, and told me I was lucky he loved me.

I don’t remember what I was thinking when I walked to the laundry room. I don’t remember sliding the tile out or wrapping the gun in the old flannel shirt. I just remember standing there in the hallway now, staring at the half-open door to our bedroom. No—his bedroom. It hasn’t been ours in a long time.

My breath hitched. I closed my eyes.

And I remembered.

The first time he hurt me, it wasn’t much. A slap. A shove. We were arguing about something stupid. I can’t even remember what. He apologized. Brought flowers. Said he didn’t mean it. Said he had a bad day.

The second time, he grabbed my hair and pulled me into the wall.

I said nothing. Told myself it was a mistake. That he was broken, and broken people break others. But if I loved him enough, maybe I could fix him.

Then came the bruises. The broken ribs. The isolation. He took my phone. My friends stopped calling. He made sure of it.

He made me small.

The hallway felt longer than it ever had. I took one step. Then another. My shadow stretched beside me, flickering with the movement of the fan.

What if he woke up?

What if he saw me standing there, like this?

Would he laugh? Would he charge at me and rip it from my hands?

Or would he beg?

I wasn’t sure I wanted either.

I reached the doorway. The door was cracked, just wide enough for me to see his bare back rising and falling with each breath. He was on his stomach. Vulnerable. Unaware.

It would be easy.

One step inside.

Raise the gun.

Squeeze the trigger.

Freedom.

But it’s never that simple.

My mother used to say, "Every action has a ghost."

Would this haunt me? Would I see his face every night, mouth open in surprise, the echo of the gunshot replaying over and over?

Or would it be quiet after?

Would it finally be quiet?

I stepped into the room. The floor creaked slightly, but he didn’t stir. The blinds were drawn, the moonlight spilling in stripes across the bed. My heart slammed against my ribs. I thought it would wake him.

I raised the gun.

The barrel was steady. My hands were not.

I remembered the time he locked me outside in winter. Barefoot. In a nightgown. Because dinner was cold.

I remembered the time he crushed my phone with his boot, then smiled like he had just popped a balloon.

I remembered lying in the bathtub, blood dripping from my lip, while the shower ran cold over my skin.

I wanted to scream. To cry. To fall to my knees. But instead, I stared at the back of his neck, the spot where his tattoo peeked out. A snake.

He always liked power.

"You’d never leave me," he told me last week, grabbing my chin in his hand. "You don’t have it in you."

Maybe I didn’t. But maybe I had something else.

I tightened my grip on the gun. My finger hovered over the trigger. One second. That’s all it would take.

But in that second, time slowed.

And all I could hear was my own breathing. Not his. Not the world. Just mine.

I imagined the flash. The smell. The silence after. Would it be satisfying? Or would it empty me out completely?

I imagined the police. The questions. The judgment.

“Why didn’t you just leave?”

Because sometimes cages don’t have bars. Sometimes the prison is inside your own head.

My knees buckled slightly. I caught myself. The gun stayed pointed. My arms ached. My soul did too.

He turned slightly in his sleep. Muttered something. I froze.

Then he settled again.

Like a monster burrowing back into the dark.

Was I ready to be the one who brought light?

I thought of the little girl I used to be. The one who danced in the rain. Who wanted to be a writer. Who believed in kindness and fairy tales.

What would she think of me now?

Would she be proud that I stood here, weapon in hand?

Or would she be horrified?

I lowered the gun.

I took a deep breath.

And then another.

I turned around. Walked back into the hallway. My feet knew the path by heart. My heart didn’t know what it was doing, but my body moved anyway.

I went to the laundry room.

Put the gun back in the flannel shirt.

Slid it under the tiles.

Then I packed a bag.

Not much. Just what I could carry.

I left my wedding ring in the sink.

And walked out the door.

The morning air stung. It was still dark, but birds had begun to chirp. Like the world was waking up with me.

I didn’t have a destination. Just away.

Away from the pain.

Away from the screams.

Away from the woman I had been.

I stayed at a shelter for a while. They gave me warmth. Food. Kindness. I hadn’t had that in so long, it felt like drinking sunlight.

I started writing again. Small things. Poems. Journal entries. My hand shook when I held a pen, but it felt better than holding a gun.

Months passed.

I heard he got arrested. Not for me. For someone else. A bar fight. Assault. He always thought he was untouchable.

I don’t know what I felt when I read the article.

Not relief.

Not satisfaction.

Just peace.

Sometimes I still dream of that night.

Of standing in that room.

Of the weight in my hand.

The one second that could’ve changed everything.

But I changed anyway.

Without the shot.

Without the blood.

With silence.

One second of it.

And for the first time, it was mine.