The Rat

“I took a picture of the rat. I found it. You didn’t believe me and I didn’t know if it was real, so I have a picture.” He’s indignant. Is stoic the right word? His mouth is in a firm line like he’s ready to unleash some kind of authority. He doesn’t look at me like this. We are jovial. A loving couple. Nobody cares about being right. We don’t do that. We decided at the beginning to be mutually submissive. I say “Go for a walk, you need a break” and he goes. 

He says, “Leslie make sure we have what we need for the camping trip” and I load the camper. It’s hard to even think of examples because it’s just our mode of operation. We’ve told each other that we have the bandwidth for only one of us to work. We’ve both quit jobs. Agree and support. Always. 

I remember one time when the kids were really little and he’d been at work all day. I forgot he had a board meeting. He walked in and told me he had ten minutes until he had to leave. I crumpled to the floor. I was exhausted. I’d been waiting for him all day. He skipped the board meeting. He didn’t convince me he should go or insist that I should have remembered. He just trusted that I needed him. 

Ok, Leslie. Be steady. That was your clue. You’re stepping into something else with him that feels off. We don’t care about being right and he’s proving himself to you right now. Normally, he’d just hire someone to catch the rat. 

This is another change in his thinking pattern. The first thing you noticed was when he stopped believing the best about your son. His five year old isn’t a master manipulator. He thuds like a dinosaur into the family room to watch YouTube at 6am and then gets caught because he’s FIVE. He “hides” the red shirt he doesn’t want to wear for field day on the top of the trash. Not in it. On top of it. He doesn’t take your phone out to the car in the wee hours of the morning before you wake up, remember not to set off the alarm, reset it, relock all the doors and then convince you that you tend to be forgetful. That’s WILD and beyond the mental capacity of a kindergartner. 

But this is new. 

Not believing the best was a big shift from a long term value. 

Needing to be right is another one. 

I step toward him and reach for his phone. Deep breath. Ugh. He knows I don’t even want to  know this. I look around. We don’t have food out on the counters. No rat now. THANK GOD. I prefer to be in active denial about a rat. He knows this is who I am. 

So many things to unpack emotionally before I look at this picture. I’m not going to be able to unsee it. Ok, logic first. We have a rat. A rat that comes into the kitchen at night. I think we thought it was roach poop. I’m so confused. I mean, not believing in a kitchen rat is still where I want to stay based on the fact that this house was more expensive than any house I ever thought I’d live in during my life. But now we have a rat and it’s not a roach. And he’s taken a picture. I can just believe it now. Do I really need to look at a picture? Oh, God, but I think I need to see it because he doesn’t make sense any more and he believes things that don’t make sense. 

I’m going to have to look at it. 

We’d planned to go see the Loch Ness Monster for my 40th birthday, he was always jumping on board with my playful nature and lately that line between us both secretly NOT believing in the Loch Ness Monster keeps getting thinner. He adores when I’m ridiculous. 

But this is serious. He’s being serious. Why aren’t we joking about Splinter being in our kitchen right now and singing the theme song from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Ok, focus, Leslie. You’re going to start humming and you need to focus on the lucidity of your wonderful husband who feels a little unhinged. 

There is no Loch Ness Monster but there may be a rat. Wait. He doesn’t KNOW if there is a rat. He said that he had to take a picture to know if it was REAL. Wait. No. What does that mean? Is he seeing things? Does he see things that may not be real? No way. Not possible. 

That cannot be what’s happening. Oh my god. He’s not ok. I didn’t know. I wondered. I feel it in my chest. A heavy pause. An alertness that wasn’t there before. This can’t be real. He doesn’t know what’s real.I swallow and my tongue pushes against the roof of my mouth. I’m bracing. Holding my breath. I can feel my shoulders start to squeeze closer to my ears. My upper abdomen tightens. 

Leslie, relax. No need to turn this into a core workout. Calm down. Look at what you know. 

He doesn’t trust me. He thinks that I’m gaslighting him about the medication he’s taking. None of it makes sense. He’s the most grounded person you know. 

He’s going to figure it out. Let’s just take it one step at a time. Breathe. People don’t just completely lose their capacity to know what’s real. You just have to get him off of these meds. You’ve got this. 

I reach for the phone and look up at him. For one ridiculous second I don't care what's in the picture. I just want my husband to know he can trust his own eyes again. I look at the picture.I force myself to really look because apparently this matters. Except my brain won't stay on the phone. It keeps coming back to the sentence. I didn't know if it was real.

The Attack

Author’s Note
This is a work-in-progress chapter from a book I’m writing. It includes discussion of violence and trauma. I’m sharing it intentionally and with care, and I’m grateful for thoughtful readers. I’d love your feedback on how to make it better.

If he closes this door, I will die.
My right foot and leg are wedged through the front door, bracing against the frame. My left hand is hooked around the inside handle, pulling as hard as I can. I clench my teeth. I reach my right hand up and push against the door toward him.

He drops the knife.
Then he uses all his weight, every pound of muscle and madness, to shove the door closed. He’s so determined. I’ve been working out every day for the last six months. I’m so strong.

I have to get out of the house.
If he closes this door, I will not survive.

Push, Leslie.

My right shoulder shifts into sunlight. The bright strip across my arm feels impossible. Maybe the neighbors are still in the driveway. They were outside when I pulled up. They have to hear me.

“Help!”
I scream it over and over, low and deliberate. One word. Get it out. Over and over. Strength focused on the door.

I haven’t been home for fifteen minutes.

Push, Leslie.

I don’t know how it happens. The world tilts. My body slips through the doorframe, and I stumble out of the house. I hit the ground hard, face-first, both arms pinned beneath me. I pull my right knee up so I can crawl away.

He’s on top of me.

His knee crushes into my back.
Why isn’t this over?
He should have snapped out of it by now.

His hands grip my neck. I can see the house, the porch steps, the cracked edge of the sidewalk, but I can’t move. My blood is everywhere. It’s warm. It’s slick. I hadn’t noticed it before now, but it’s dripping down my chin, pooling into the grass.

He can’t get a good grip.
It’s slippery from all the blood.

I squirm. He pushes the heel of his palm into the back of my neck. He hasn’t thought to slam my head into the ground. That would knock me out. That would kill me.

I shake my head back and forth, desperate, animal.

He pinches my nose and covers my mouth with one hand while the other holds me down.

“I love you.”

Why are you doing this?

His voice is unrecognizable—high, frantic, like someone performing grief. He’s completely gone. I can’t find a trace of the man I married. Why didn’t he stop after he pushed me through the window. After he slit my throat. After he kept stabbing me.

Don’t let him grab your hair.
Don’t let him slam your head into the ground.
Keep moving. Keep moving.

Where are the kids?
Our poor kids.
They’re going to lose us both.

I see my daughter’s feet.
She’s standing on the steps.

She’s screaming.

What is she saying?
Stop.
Stop.
Please stop.

Did she get the neighbor? Is someone coming? So much is happening at once that it all folds together—my elbow wedged under my ribs, the sound of distant traffic, my entire being resisting death, my child’s voice breaking apart.

He screams her name. Twice.
His hands loosen.

Run.

I don’t know if he’s distracted or collapsing or finally fading out of the frenzy, but I scramble forward. My limbs don’t feel attached to my body. My vision tunnels.

Run.

I hear the neighbor yelling for me to get inside, and I hear wailing somewhere.
I run. I trip. I get up again.

He doesn’t reach me.

The neighbor’s door swings open and her face goes white. She pulls the kids inside first. I haven’t seen my son’s face.

I’m inside.
Safe enough.
For now.

The wailing gets louder. I hear sirens now too.

I collapse into the chair. I look down at myself.

I am covered in blood.
I look up at our neighbor.
“Take my picture. I’ll need pictures.”