No Turning Bac

"You're just like your father!" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, but for the first time I didn't regret saying it.

His hand shot out and connected with the left side of my face in a smack that sent me reeling against the back of the couch. This was the first time he had hit me, and I stared at him with surprised tears in my eyes. The look on his face was enough to let me know that he hadn't entirely meant to hit me, but he was still angry. I pushed away from the couch and walked out of the house to my car.

"Dammit, Jordan, I didn't mean it!"

He was running across the lawn waving his arms, but I ignored him as I started to back out of the drive. The rest of his words were drowned out behind the window.

*~*~*~*

I had driven across town to Megan's house. She opened the door and pulled me into a hug before moving me along to the kitchen. "What the hell happened?"

"We were having another argument," I began, breaking into tears. "It's all we seem to do anymore - argue. I told him he was acting just like his father and he hauled off and slapped me."

"Oh my god, Jordan, do you want to call the cops?"

"No. He's never done this before. I walked out of the house and came here."

She got up, wrapped some ice cubes in a towel and handed it to me knowing better than to try to convince me otherwise. There was a look in her eye, though, that said she didn't think this would be the end of it.

*~*~*~*

All of the arguments always started out the same. He refused to follow any kind of budget and became incensed when we were broke because of it. It was never his fault. I always spent too much on groceries or my hobbies. The problem was never that he paid no heed to the amount I told him was available for extras that month and he seemed to go out of his way to spend twice that amount. I had tried discussing it with him, but he refused to see it as anything other than me being controlling.

After he hit me the first time, all my give-a-damn went flying out the window. I cancelled his debit card to my account and handed him a check book register to keep track of his own money. I made sure there was only enough in the house account for the mortgage and the utility bills while the rest went into a joint savings we had set up so neither of us could withdraw for a certain amount of time.

It would take both of our signatures to change that, so he couldn't touch it. I kept my money separate and in good shape while he floundered and struggled to keep it together on his end. Several months passed without much of an incident until he came in after work with a letter from the bank.

"The bank is saying they're going to repossess my car for lack of payment, Jordan. You need to fix this and stop the petty money bullshit."

"I don't have to fix anything. You have your own account and you make plenty of money to cover your own car note. This is not my fault."

"For fuck's sake, woman! That is your car too. You can't lord the money over my head like this forever. I'm the man in this house and you will fix this."

"If you're such a man, then you should be able to fix it on your own."

His face was suffused with red when I looked up and I managed to dodge the first blow. This only seemed to enrage him even more. He grabbed my ponytail and yanked me off my feet. When I landed on the floor, he lashed out with his foot kicking me square in the ribs.

"You're my wife. We vowed to be in this together. That means with or without the money problems." The bank notice fluttered down to land beside my face. "Fix this."

The money wasn't our only problem. He resented the fact that I had a better paying job and never stopped to consider the amount of work I put in to be qualified for it. Our sex life had gone down the drain a year ago. What used to be a non-issue became a huge argument almost every night. Either I wasn't wearing the right outfit for him or my hair wasn't brushed well enough. Whatever it was, he found a reason to ignore me. When I started ignoring him was when the real trouble started.

*~*~*~*

We hadn't had sex in a month. To be honest, I didn't miss it. He hadn't even tried to touch me in that time, so I stopped trying to initiate anything. It must have gotten to him because he became angrier and angrier during the week before the situation exploded.

He rolled over in the bed and pulled me to him. The movement woke me and I tried to push him away. When I started to struggle, he used one hand in my hair to pull me back against him. The pressure on my head made me fight harder to get away from him before he reached over with his other hand to hold my face still. His fingers bruised my jaw as he put his face in mine, using the leverage to turn me onto my back.

With my head pressed back against the mattress, he loosed his hand from my hair and reached down to move my panties aside. His fingers scraped along my skin before plunging into me. I wasn't wet or ready at all, so the penetration just hurt. I couldn't make much more noise than small whimpers with his hand squeezing the lower half of my face. He must have taken these noises as encouragement because he ripped my panties off.

I managed to close my thighs before he could mount me. He released my face only to slap me and then use both fists to punch my thighs until I couldn't hold them together any longer. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pushed between my legs and tried to shove himself into me. The whiskey he had been drinking had taken effect, though. He slid against me impotently, unable to get the penetration he desired.

Despite the lack of erection, he continued to thrust against me until with a grunt he passed out on top of me. When his snores began, I pushed him off of me and limped to the bathroom. There was a definite handprint across my mouth and jaw, and my legs were already starting to turn a hideous shade of purple. I took some Tylenol for the headache and went to the guest room to toss and turn in a different bed.

*~*~*~*

Months passed before he hit me again, but this time it was for no particular reason. He was drunk and it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. His fist pounded my stomach over and over until I could hardly draw a breath. Then he stood and kicked my arms as I tried to protect my bruised midsection.

I felt something snap and knew he had broken my arm. I wasn't going to be able to hide it this time. When he passed out on the couch, I managed to call Megan to pick me up and take me to the hospital. God only knew what he would do to me if I called an ambulance and they woke him up.

"Jesus, Jordan," Megan said as she helped me into the back of her Suburban. "Are you going to make it to the hospital or do I need to have an ambulance meet us on the way?"

"I'll make it." My voice was hoarse as though I had been screaming, but I hadn't uttered so much as a whimper through the whole ordeal. I was kind of proud of myself for that as the tears started to fall onto the seat pressing against my face.

I must have passed out because the next thing I knew a young woman was standing over me telling me that everything was going to be okay, but that I needed to have a CT scan to make sure nothing had been ruptured. I woke again in a hospital bed with an I.V. in my arm and Megan asleep with her head on the mattress by my hip. Someone had covered her with a blanket and I let her sleep.

The next couple of weeks progressed with few hitches. I stayed most of the time with Megan. Whenever I did go to the house, he was apologetic and would start to cry when I left again. My arm had a small fracture and I had some major bruising to my abdomen. It was nothing I couldn't handle. Megan started talking about divorce lawyers, but I had already made up my mind in the hospital.

*~*~*~*

"Are you ready yet, Jordan?" Megan came into my room just as I was running a brush through my hair one last time. "You look fine. Now let's go."

I had finally gotten up the nerve to go out with Megan for a night on the town two months after my arm healed. We had spent the morning shopping for club clothing, and I made sure she had told several of her coworkers where we would be going. I knew some of them worked with him and that word would get back that I was going out.

Even I had to admit that the short red dress looked stunning on me. My curves were accented in all the right places and the V of the neck dipped almost to my navel. Megan and I had had to wrestle with some double sided tape in discreet places to prevent any unfortunate malfunctions. With one more glance in the mirror, I left the apartment with Megan and we rode to the bar.

The music was loud while bodies were pushing and shoving against each other in some mating ritual that had been lost on me in my marriage. Before long Megan was swept away with someone tall, dark, and handsome while I found a vacant table and started people watching. She looked hot as she ground herself along the length of the man. I could tell by the look on his face that he thought he had gotten lucky.

It wasn't long before an arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me from the stool. I let myself be pulled onto the dance floor and the music flow through me. The man was clearly enjoying himself as he pressed his erection against my backside and held onto my hips. I wriggled against him as I caught a familiar flash a few yards away. He was here and he was pissed.

I turned in the stranger's arms just as my husband pulled me away and tried to punch the guy. It was what I had been hoping for as I took the opportunity to sink the toe of my left pump deep into my husband's groin. He turned to me, his face pale with pain as he fell to his knees.

I pulled the stranger to me and kissed him right in front of my husband as he knelt gasping for breath. The man pressing himself against me quickly forgot about the beating he almost took and grabbed my ass. He slid his fingers under the hem of my dress and moaned into my mouth when he felt my lack of panties.

We left my husband staggering across the dance floor as I was pulled toward the door of the bar and out into the cooler air. The man had parked in the very back of the property where there was no pavement. I had to take my heels off just to avoid breaking an ankle on the uneven ground. His truck was lifted like fifty percent of the other trucks in the lot. I flashed a lot more than leg trying to climb up over the tailgate.

I writhed with my legs straddling the back of the truck as my husband came around the bar. Playfully, I pushed the dancer to the floor of the bed and started working on his belt. I wanted to be riding him hard when my husband finally reached the truck.

The dancer's cock sprung from his pants as I pulled them down his hips and moved over him. I was wet from the anticipation and he slid into my depths with a moan. He grabbed my hips, thrusting into me hard enough that I had to brace myself with my hands on his chest.

The hem of my dress had risen up to my waist giving my husband quite an eyeful when he looked over the edge. I stared into his eyes as I moaned then threw my head back to enjoy the building orgasm. He stood there watching as I bounced above the stranger and started to play with my clit.

I came in a rush over the man's cock, my juices making wet sucking sounds as he continued to pound into me. After a few more thrusts, he shoved into me as far as he could go and shot his hot load deep in my pussy with a primal cry of ecstasy. When he finally relaxed, I turned toward my husband and slid off the man, his semen starting to run down my legs.

My husband was speechless as I climbed over the tailgate and the ground. He stayed that way as I pulled a garrote from the hem of the dress and strangled him with such force that I nearly severed his head.

The man in the bed of the truck was a witness against me in my trial six months later, but I didn't care. I told him he was a good fuck as they walked me out of the courtroom after finding me guilty of cold-blooded murder.

I heard two years later that the one woman on the jury had fought for my sentence to be reduced, but I didn't care. After working in the state prison as a correctional officer, I had known that I would be given three square meals a day. Women who killed their deadbeat, abusive husbands didn't have much to worry about in prison either.

*~*~*~*

The man looked through the Plexiglas at me when he finished writing his notes. I had been surprised when the visitation officers informed me that a doctoral student wanted to interview me about my crime. I accepted it as just one more way to break up the monotony of daily prison life.

"I only have one more question, Jordan." His voice was nice, but I could tell he was nervous even with the guards in the room. "Why didn't you call an ambulance the night he broke your arm?"

"I didn't want him to wake up before I could get out of the house."

"Yes, I know that," he looked down at his notes. "You were hurting and afraid, but you had to have known that a police report would have gone a long way to stop the abuse."

I smiled when he looked up and poured as much sarcasm as I could into my voice, "My dear boy, have you lost your ever-loving mind? A police report wouldn't have stopped anything. It might have delayed it, but it would never have stopped."

"You have to know by now that an assault and battery charge would have gotten him time behind bars."

"Yes, he would have gotten some time in jail. It would have been inconvenient, but not permanent."

"His death was permanent. You could have avoided that with a divorce."

I leaned toward the glass and smiled again when he backed away, "That would have been too easy for him. Do you believe that a man who suddenly begins to beat his wife after five years of marriage deserves to be let off easy? I don't. Spousal abuse is frowned upon in society, sure, but it never stops. If I had divorced him, he would have just come after me or started again on some other poor girl. His death rid the earth of his disgusting presence."

After that, the man left with his notes and I went back to my cell. Several months later I got an official looking package in the mail. It was the man's doctoral thesis, and there was a red flag noting the pages that pertained to our interview.

The subject appeared calm as she discussed killing her husband. Not a clinical sociopathic calmness, but a calm that led me to believe she was at peace with her decision...

I thought about that for hours and realized he was right. I am at peace with my decision to kill my husband. My only regret was that he hadn't suffered enough in the end.