There's always a way out

There’s always a way out

NOTE: This story contains scenes of emotional abuse and violence.

The chill air was awash with a clean, crisp, minutely tangy aroma. Impending snow. Felicity closed her eyes and drank in the scent of it, calming her chaotic heartrate and allowing her to breathe freely again.

She had finally stopped crying, but her tear-streaked cheeks still stung a bit from the cold air. Sitting down heavily on the top of her front steps, she pressed her face into her hands to block out the world.

Unfortunately, that didn't stop her mind from rolling back to the start of the morning.

She woke to find her bed empty. That was her first sign of trouble. She made it a habit, out of necessity, to wake before her husband. Getting him ready for work was her highest priority. She looked over to the valet stand in the corner by the dresser. The suit jacket was still draped wrinkle-free around its hanger, so she had to assume the remainder of the outfit rested beneath it. That too was a bad sign.

Getting up early also gave her an opportunity to clean up any mistakes she might have missed the night before.

She quickly grabbed her robe off the bathroom door and wrapped herself against the chill that began to fall on her. The winter air had nothing to do with it. She flew down the stairs, slowing her steps, and her breathing, as she reached the bottom so as not to look unsettled.

She carefully stepped around the corner to find her husband, Bart, sitting at the island counter. His hands were woven together on the granite in front of him, his back straight, staring through the refrigerator into the distance. He was still in his pajamas, his feet naked. His back was facing her, so he couldn't see her. But he knew she was there.

"The dishwasher is dirty." His voice was steady and gentle as he made the pronouncement. That voice had once drawn her to him, like a fly attracted to the UV light hiding the trap.

Felicity cursed herself. She always made a point of running the dishwasher every day after the last dirty dish was in. Even if she'd let if run overnight, she'd be up early enough to empty it. Why hadn't it run? Ah, yes. Bart had decided late to have a bowl of ice cream. He'd done the unthinkable and put the bowl in the dishwasher himself, which paused the setting to run it overnight.

She couldn't remind him of that, of course. "I'm sorry. I'll take care of that now."

Before she could flip the dishwasher to start, Bart spoke up again. "I was going to make myself a bowl of cereal." his implied magnanimity freezing her in place.

She wanted to point out that there were clean bowls, but she knew that would be out of bounds. Instead, she turned and reached into the cabinet above the dishwasher. She pulled out a bowl and placed it in front of him. She headed for the panty, only to be stopped short again.

"Wash it," he said, his voice becoming hard.

"What?" she asked in confusion. "That's a clean bowl."

Questioning him was her next mistake.

"Wash it!" he shouted

Flinching despite herself, Felicity grabbed the bowl and quickly moved to the sink to start the hot water. Scalding herself a bit as she washed it, she ultimately delivered him a dry bowl. This time he didn't complain as she retrieved his favorite high fiber granola blend. She dutifully filled the bowl with cereal and requisite milk.

She submissively stood aside. But he just stared at the bowl for a full minute before asking, "Am I supposed to lick it out of the bowl?" His tone was arctic.

She mentally berated herself. She was letting frustration ruin an already crushing morning. She retrieved a spoon and held it out for him, whereby he ripped it out of her hand. Thankfully, such actions were the closest he ever came to physically hurting her. Truth be told, there was no comfort in that thought.

She began to head back to the stairs, but he arrested her again. "Stay here," he said crisply.

She obeyed, standing by the sink in perfect silence while he ate. When he was finished a few minutes later, he left the bowl on the counter as he headed up the stairs. He was off to shower, shave, and dress, leaving her some few moments of peace, false as it may be.

Turning on the spot, she leaned her arms against the lip of the sink, her head hanging over it. She was on the verge of spewing the bile that had built up, but she suppressed the urge. Barely. Instead, she remained immobile while the gurgle of water cascaded through the drains.

This wasn't what she'd expected when they got married. She was about to start a promising career but set it aside for him. He was a model of respectfulness, gentleness, and generosity. What more could she ask for? Even the beginnings of their marriage had been good, if a little one sided. But then came his desire to start a family. Again, she allowed him to set the timeline, and they'd tried to conceive. And failed. They'd gotten tested. She was fine, but he was not. His sperm had low motility, they'd said. It wasn't impossible, just unlikely.

That had broken him. And he, in turn, had broken her.

The water stopped flowing. Knowing it was now safe to do so, she added the breakfast items and turned on the dishwasher. She busied herself with checking for more mistakes, so as to stave off any more outbursts, and to avoid looking lazy.

She was busy arranging some of the utensils when she heard his heavy tread descending the stairs.

"I hate the tie you chose for me," he said with disdain, as he exited the stairwell. It had been his favorite the previous week. "But I don't have time to change it. Nothing you do is right. It's a wonder I keep you." His mother had given him that tie, or had he forgotten? That wasn't right.

She just stood there, shamefully looking at the floor, simultaneously hiding the flush that was beginning to touch her face.

"Pathetic," he added, his voice dripping with scorn.

The heat spread further, waves of discomfort disorienting her.

Shaking his head, he said, "I don't want you leaving the house today. This is your punishment for not doing anything right this morning." He turned and headed toward the front door.

Her heart beat faster and she was puffing out short spasmodic nasal breaths.

Without thinking, she followed a short distance behind him. Maybe she could catch him before he left. She needed to tell him about the tie.

As Bart opened the door, she reached out for him.

That had been an hour ago. She was still sitting on the front step when a heavy coat was gently wrapped around her.

"Hey there, Felicity." It was Carol, her neighbor from across the street. She had a gentle voice too. But she also had the gentle personality to go along with it. "You're going to freeze to death out here, ya know?"

Felicity just shrugged through the coat. "I'll be fine, I'm sure," she said, with little emotion.

Carol gave her a concerned look. "Honey, you're sitting here in your underwear while the snow is falling."

Felicity looked down and realized the truth of it. She wasn't even wearing her robe any longer. When had that happened?

Just then, Felicity saw a man standing off to the side. Carol noticed where Felicity was looking and nodded. "Felicity, this nice officer would like to ask you a few questions. Why don't you go with him and warm up in his car? How does that sound?"

The suggestion of warmth was the queue for Felicity to register the cold and begin shivering. She stood and said numbly, "Yeah, I think that's a good idea." She proceeded to walk down the steps and into the waiting car.

She briefly looked back at her house to see Bart's body lying in the doorway, head hanging across the threshold, blood pooling below and snaking toward the front step where Felicity had been sitting. The knife was still inches deep into his neck.

As the car door closed on her, and that chapter of her life, she still felt no comfort.