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.”