Melanie Writes

**Trigger Warning**

**A work of fiction**

I hear the sirens roaring towards us like a freight train, my heart pounding faster with each breath of air I take, knowing it might be my last free breath.

I’m standing over him, blood escaping from every hole in his body including the 1 that I put into his chest just minutes ago. My foot is parked in between his legs, knowing if he were to wake up, I’d be in a compromised position with no way to stop him from dropping me to the ground, but my foot is paralyzed. My eyes are glued to his, waiting for him to blink to show he has life inside of him. I’m not blinking either, I can’t, just in case we blink at the same time and I miss it. He’s completely lifeless and yet I still fear him.

The sirens get louder. A part of me wishes it were a freight train coming to run me over so I didn’t have to deal with the aftermath. My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it outside of my chest exploding with rage, with guilt, with sorrow.

I tried to lift my leg, but it feels glued to the ground. It’s either all in my head, or the puddle of blood underneath my sneaker has fused my foot to the concrete beneath us.

An ambulance pulls onto the street, and drives up beside us, closer than I imagined they would, but far enough away that they couldn’t see my hands clenched at my sides, still making fists towards a man that I’m pretty sure no longer exists.

I can see the paramedics waiting in the truck from the corner of my eye, because I still cannot will myself to take my eyes off of his. What are they waiting for? Why aren’t they coming to see if he’s alive? Why aren’t they helping me?

Two separate police cars quickly pull onto the street next, one on each side of the ambulance. Four officers get out of their respective cars pretty quickly, and two of them head right towards me. I want to talk, scream, cry, but I’m frozen. Am I actually paralyzed?

“Ma’am, are you hurt?,” one of the officers says gently.

I feel immediately at ease, and turn away to look at him. “No,” I somehow manage to utter just the one word.

He asks me if I am able to come with him to talk. I nod in agreement, but I still cannot move. My feet feel heavier than ever before, and all I want to do is fall to the ground and lay with the shell of a man that used to be my husband.

The officer gently takes me by the shoulders and walks me a few yards away.

“I’m Officer White. Can you tell me your name?”

I don’t know, can I? “Faith Mayfield”

“And that is your husband?”

I nod, assuming Officer White thinks I’m a monster, and that I’m seconds away from wearing cold silver bracelets into the back of his police car, and spending the rest of my life with a cellmate named Big Mama. Why would he think anything besides that?

“We ran his file on the way over here. Was it self defense?”

I get choked up on those words. I never defended myself before. I spent years wearing scarves to cover up the damage he did on my neck when he would drink too much, long sleeve shirts in the summer time to cover up the bruises on my arms from how hard he would twist them if I tried to leave the house, and make up not only to hide the bruises on my face, but to hide the tears I cried every night wondering if I was ever going to escape this life.

“You don’t have to answer right now, let’s get you cleaned up.” It wasn’t until then did I realize that I too was covered in blood. Was it all his, or were we now forever intertwined even after his demise?