“I
think you should leave,” she says, and she doesn’t know why, because a
court sealed envelope run door-to-door by Sheriff Jackson hasn’t stopped
Mike and she doubts her words will.
Mike
grins—that feral cat grin that once made her feel wanted but now just
makes her back and legs ache with the memory of bruises—and nearly
breaks the hinge off the door as he pushes into the living room, pushes
into her space, with his hand raised.
But
she’s been practicing, three times a week in class and an hour every
day on her own in the most claustrophobic spaces she can find, because
Mike knows just how to use his bulk and the length of his limbs to make
her feel like rolling over and playing dead.
She
throws up her left arm, catches his jarring blow and steps into him,
putting the force of her body behind the knuckle she jabs into his
throat.
His bugged eyes make her think of old Bugs Bunny cartoons and
she can’t help but laugh a little at his strangled gag and the way his
fingers scrabble at his throat as though they could uncrush his
windpipe, because now she’s remembering the reedy blip of a heart
monitor and the bitter-cold taste of metal in her mouth, keeping her jaw
shut tight.
She’s going to get the cordless and do the right thing...call the police, but before she does, she leans down—close
enough to see the shine of his fear blown pupils—and says, “It might
have been a better idea for you to pick on someone your own size.”