Chapter 6 - The Desperate Cornered Animal
A week before the preliminary divorce hearing, I made a mistake.
I decided to visit the Arlington house one last time to retrieve a box of my late mother’s photographs from the attic before the real estate agent held the open house.
I thought I was safe. The restraining order was in place, and Daniel knew he’d go to jail if he violated it.
But desperate men do not think logically.
I was pulling the dusty cardboard box down from the attic stairs when I heard the heavy thud of the front door being kicked in.
My blood ran cold.
"Claire!" His voice echoed through the empty hallways, rough and slurred. He was drunk.
I froze, clutching the box to my chest.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the wooden stairs. I backed into the master bedroom, frantically pulling out my phone to dial 911.
Before I could hit the call button, Daniel kicked the bedroom door open.
He looked terrible. He had lost weight, his clothes were wrinkled, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild. He smelled like cheap whiskey and unwashed clothes.
"You ruined me," he hissed, stepping into the room and blocking the exit.
"Daniel, you are violating a restraining order," I said, backing away until my shoulders hit the cold glass of the window. "The police are already on their way."
It was a lie, but I needed him to hesitate.
"I don't care about the cops!" he screamed, sweeping a lamp off the nightstand. It shattered against the wall. "My life is over! Megan is facing jail time for tax evasion, I lost my job, and I'm sleeping in my car! You took everything from me!"
"You took it from yourself," I replied, refusing to look away, refusing to let him see the terror shaking my knees. "You chose to steal. You chose to abuse me. I just stopped covering it up."
He let out a guttural yell and charged at me.
Instinct took over. I threw the heavy box of photographs directly into his face.
The sharp corner caught his nose, making him stumble backward with a cry of pain.
I didn't hesitate. I bolted past him, sprinting down the stairs as fast as my legs could carry me.
I hit the front door just as he recovered, his footsteps pounding behind me.
I scrambled out onto the front lawn, screaming for help.
Luckily, Mrs. Gable, my nosy neighbor who had witnessed the aftermath of the coffee incident, was watering her hydrangeas.
She had already called the police the moment she saw Daniel kick the door in.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second.
Daniel stumbled out onto the porch, blood pouring from his nose, his fists clenched.
He saw the flashing blue and red lights turning onto our street and froze. The fight completely drained out of him.
He sank down onto the porch steps, putting his head in his hands, crying like a child.
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I stood in the safety of Mrs. Gable's yard, watching as two officers tackled my husband to the ground, handcuffing him and reading him his rights.
The monster was finally in a cage.
