A Short Story
Story based on the image shown — image is from Pixabay

A short story by Lynn Miclea

I reached for the drink, feeling confident I was making the right decision.

It had taken a while to come to this decision. Too long, actually. I should have done this long ago. But I knew it was the right decision. I was determined.

After months of being abused by my boyfriend, it was time to leave. At first it was simply his insults, and then it slowly progressed. The last week, he started pushing me and then slapping me. Then, last night … he had punched me in my stomach and then punched me in the face.

All along, over these past few months, I kept thinking he’d realize what he was doing was wrong and that he’d see how it hurt me. He even apologized a few times, and I thought he’d stop. But no. It kept getting worse. It was escalating. And I knew I had to leave. And I needed to go as soon as possible.

I was not sure how he would take it if I simply walked out. Would he come after me? Hurt me even more? Maybe even kill me? Whatever he would try, it didn’t matter anymore. It was time to leave. It was definitely the right decision.

The next morning, after he went to work, I quickly packed up before I could change my mind, and I walked out the door. I did not leave any note. I just left. It was the only decision I could make to save myself, and it felt so good to leave. Feeling a bit shaky, but confident it was the right thing to do, I drove straight home.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I relaxed on the couch in my own apartment. I was glad I had kept my own apartment all this time. I was home now, and I felt safe. I poured myself a glass of wine and took a sip. To better days, I thought to myself as I took another sip. It felt soothing, and I felt myself unwind even further.

In the evening, I turned on the TV. Breaking news showed on the screen. I watched a story about a huge explosion and a fire in a nearby neighborhood. I sat forward with interest, my eyes glued to the screen. The person living there did not survive. Wait … that house was familiar. It was my ex-boyfriend’s house. The house I had just left that morning.

I smiled. It sure couldn’t be the gas that I had left on in the kitchen when I left that morning, could it? I knew he always lit up a cigarette when he first got home from work. But that wouldn’t have anything to do with this explosion, would it?

Nah, it must just be a coincidence.

I smiled again. He couldn’t hurt me anymore.

I took another sip of wine. Yes, it had been the right decision.

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