It was dark by the time she made it back to the house. Shards of pain stabbed the soles of her feet. She felt queerly calm in spite of everything, despite whatever may be waiting for her on the other side of the door. Some instinct deep inside her gut was certain that one way or another things would come to an end tonight. She did not question her instinct that night, powerful as it was. She knew what she had to do.

Every window that she could see was unlit with darkness. The house looked empty. She winced at the painful protest her feet were putting up as she approached the front door. She hesitated. She didn't want to open it, but she did want to, because she had to. Staying in that house, in that life, was not a choice any longer but a matter of whether she wanted to survive or not. And she didn't want to go in that house because if Roy was there then she would be in huge trouble. Painful trouble.

Days and weeks later she would wonder that perhaps if she had been thinking clearly that night, thinking safely, and had waited until she was sure that Roy was not inside, things would have played out differently. What made her so rash that night? Possibly in her mind she had closed off that sense of preservation – physical preservation – to the danger she was putting herself in. Roy would be angry over that days earlier events, of course, but once it became clear what she was doing he would be beyond that anger, he would become utterly enraged and an enraged Roy was an extremely dangerous Roy. Yet she could not process this as a fact that night, nor even acknowledge it – she had one task in her head, only one and she moved towards it in a single minded daze.

Pam found the front door unlocked when she pulled on the handle. The lights were all out and somehow she didn't know if that was more unnerving than if the house had been lit. Cautiously she stopped and stood in the doorway and listened for any noises, shuffling, breathing, steps, any sign that someone else was in the house.

She went in a little further, rotely closing the door behind her and walked to the small stairway. Another pause. She listened. Anticipated. It was like she was eight years old again, sneaking cookies from the Snoopy cookie jar in the kitchen long after she was supposed to be asleep and knowing that she would be in a lot of hot water if her dad caught her.

Well, she was up to her eyeballs in steaming hot water now. And it wouldn't just be her allowance she lost this time if she was caught. The only way to get herself out of it before she burned to death was to get moving. Determination. She made herself move. Her feet screamed as she crept up the stairs, her brain yelled at her that it was Roy waiting for her at the top, waiting to impress upon her just how badly she had let him down and she came so close to turning back that she actually imagined she was at the bottom again and fleeing out the front door for all her life was worth. Only she kept going, up, up, up, slipping on to the hallway carpet, passing straight through the dark shadow that her brain had mistaken for Roy. Five minutes, she reassured herself. Collecting her things. That's all she was doing. She had every right in the world to take her own things. Five minutes and not a millisecond more and she was out of there for good, and that was going to be that.

...

She slunk into the bedroom like a ghost. The usual odour of sweat hung in the dry and musty air. She had never been able to rid the room of it, despite vigorous cleaning and humidifying attempts, staleness clung to everything. It smelt dead in the room as though the window hadn't been opened in a long time. Everything looked the same as it had that morning. Curtains closed (Roy did not like the curtains open in the bedroom because Roy said privacy was not negotiable and that was that), pillows fluffed and positioned and everything in its place. Except.

Roy's denim jacket.

Spread out over the end of the bed.

That was when the warning bells went off in her brain. In an instant she had backed out of the room, sprinting across the hallway into the bathroom. The pain in her feet had increased to a crescendo. It was then that she caught a glimpse of the tarnished mirror glass and the ragged girl inside of it who wore Pam's face, her hair, her eyes, wet lifeless eyes. A girl whose healthy rosy skin had gradually faded to the kind of anaemic winter white that gave her a sunken, cold appearance. There was a thin dirt-filled crack winding down the glass – that was new to her – splitting the girl into subtle halves, misaligning her features – distorting the image. Hardened water stains soiled the reflection.

She yanked the bathroom cabinet door open and snatched down one of the boxes of band aids she kept next to the cold compresses and extra strength tylenol, sitting down on the toilet lid to hurriedly slap some bandages over the damage to the soles of her feet. Pam cushioned the worst of it by layering the band aids over each other as best as she could before seizing a pair of socks from the laundry basket.

Under the sink was the cupboard where all the items that Roy considered ladythings were kept – things he didn't want to see; wax strips, cotton balls and swabs, makeup remover and Tampax amongst other items and it was this last item that she sought from the far back of the little cupboard. The small box was long since emptied of its original contents, what it had held since then had much more importance to her that night. Notes, a moderate handful of notes, of tens, twenties that she pinched between her fingers and took them with her out of the bathroom.

Back in the bedroom, she eased her stinging feet into an old pair of Keds that she hauled out from under the bed and slipped her purse on to her shoulder, sidling the cash into the top pocket. There wasn't much to the small, dim room that always held a wintery chill in its air even during the hottest days of summer, but it wasn't much that she needed. On the wall shelf by the closed window was a hardback version of English Patient, it's title almost obscured by heavily settled dust, and underneath that lay a much cleaner edition of Art is a way of Knowing. The book wore the yellowing, curled corners of well thumbed pages that ripple in the dry air as she eased it out. Good books and their secrets, someone or other once said. Pam flipped the book on its end and surveyed the spine. She carefully prodded her index finger into the space between the spine and pages, feeling the crinkly notes at once. With some careful manoeuvring and patience she didn't feel, she managed to slide the money out into her hand. This she dumped into her purse with the other notes. Between that and the Tampax money, as she thought of it – she didn't have much but at least she didn't have nothing.

Making her way back over to the dresser with short wincing steps; she briskly jerked open the top drawer, snatching up a handful of lingerie and throwing it into her purse. Chaotically she dumped items from around the room on top of the underwear; contact solution, a sweater, more socks, and then tossed a new box of band aids from her night table in as an afterthought.

She worked fast and deliberately, not giving herself any time to think – second thoughts - about what she was doing. Her eyes scanned the night table – Roy's side – for the small grey smartphone, the phone she was never ever to touch. Roy's second phone, the one he kept for 'emergencies'. Emergencies being backhand code for Kenny, for gambling and for women. It was almost laughable that Roy had tried to hide the other women from her. Funny to think that was where he drew the line in a long list of detestable behaviour. Her hand hovered over the phone.

Roy would kill her if she touched that phone, and he would know she had because he always did know and he always let her know that he knew. She stood struck with indecision for precious seconds before she mentally kicked her good sense back into gear. She was going, she was leaving, breaking the bedroom-phone rule was the least of her worries. She had to get away from there as fast as she could and she couldn't do it on foot, and certainly not with shredded feet.

The hell with it. The phone would be the least of Roy's worries that night.

Her fingers fumbled in lifting it up, almost slipping through her hands. She punched in the number she knew well, stopping before pressing the last digit when a dark thought slammed into her. She was risking a lot that night, it wouldn't do her to be stupid about it. Of course it would be dangerous to call anyone she knew – not when she was using Roy's phone. What if Roy picked it up later and saw she had used it to make her getaway call? If he saw, say Jim's number, her mom's number as the last call made– well she might as well draw him a damn map.

She called for a cab instead. Fifteen minutes, the bored operator told her. Setting the phone back on the night table her fingers travelled to Roy's pillow, propped fussily up against the head of the bed. With well practised precision she kneaded and smoothed the pillow, flattening out wrinkles, plumping, patting the cotton down before the absurdity of what she was doing struck her like a blow to the cheek. She snatched her fingers back as if they were burning against the material. She was leaving. She would not be there when Roy slumped into bed that night. She would not see the soft blue of his eyes darken and harden and ice over, she would not bear the sharp words cutting into spitefully into her. Roy's disdain for her abysmal housekeeping – Roykeeping – skills would not be a lesson she would have to be reminded of that night. No. Her eyes swept the room briefly.

This was the room she had shared with Roy for over four years. The carpet, grey and rough, where she had more than once found herself branded with a carpet burn on her forearm and other areas from being pulled across the floor in a fit of fury. How many times had he dragged her around this room? How many times had she woken up in this bed with his fingers in her, on her, always demanding of her? Memories flashed in front of her, a phantasmagoria of soiled and savage souvenirs of her relationship with Roy.

This was it. So many, many times she had thought about leaving. She fingered the band on her left hand, propped her up firmly on her shoulder and went to the hall. At the doorway, Pam stopped. Hesitated. Biting her lip she turned back to face the room again.

As if moved by force, she yanked the simple diamond cluster ring she wore off from her left hand and dropped it carelessly onto the pillow that Roy slept on. She didn't look back.

Downstairs the unease she felt began to throb in her chest, sharper now that her escape was sight. She moved steadily, not allowing herself to give into the panic she felt. She pulled her trench coat off the hook in the hallway. Slinging it over her arm, she felt the pockets for her keys. Opening the door, a fresh burst of cool night air brushed over her.

Later on, she would wonder how he had managed to stay so silent – Roy, who had all the grace and poise of a fit bull, Roy, who's thundering stride could be heard, under any other circumstance, from a distance too far away for easy comfort.

It happened so quickly. She had stepped only halfway out the door before being roughly seized and dragged back inside. Before she could utter so much as a squeak, she was slammed into the wall at a numbing pace, gruff fingers pulling tightly on her hair. Pam wriggled and yelped against the fiery sting of her scalp before she was let go all of a sudden. She collapsed to the floor, her heart punching wildly.

"Get away from that door!" Roy bellowed, thundering towards her. In a wild bowing motion he scuffled for her wrists, clenching one in each hand before dragging her backwards along the carpet and away from the door. Pam heard herself moan as her head exploded with sharp needle-like pain all over. Roy's eyes were bright with fury and they burned into her like lasers. Then he dropped his grip on her hair and stomped over to the door, kicking it shut.

Pam groaned and pushed herself up with an effort, leaning against the wall for support.

"What the hell is this?" Roy stormed, thrusting her bag up in the air. Furiously he ripped it open, growling through the contents Pam had so hastily tossed inside. Flipping the bag upside down; coins, purse, lipsticks – her underwear rained out on to the floor. Roy seemed to swell with rage. He reached out and nudged her underwear with a booted toe.

"You whore." He spat at her. "I knew it. You think you're just gonna leave here and go to him?"

Pushing herself away from the wall, Pam looked at Roy with disgust. Everything, every punch, kick, bite, every accusation, all the humiliation- only yesterday she was being treated for concussion – every indignity Roy had ever forced upon her swelled up painfully inside her. Concussion. Broken bones. Lies. Emotional blackmail. Accusations. The bare fact that his first instinct was to blame Jim for her leaving. Her resolve strengthened.

"I'm leaving. I'm done." She said simply, trying to keep the quiver from her voice. She wasn't going to debate the issue of Jim – or anything else with him – she had come back to the house with one purpose, to end things and leave. And she certainly was not going to cry this time.

Roy was walking towards her slowly. "Oh, is that right?" he growled. His face was hard, incensed, focused on her. It was a look she had seen often in the past; yet there was a wild intensity set in his features that she was not familiar with. Roy looked like a feral bear, rising up to his full height over her menacingly. Pam flinched back against the wall, scanning the room for anything she could use against him to hold him off.

"Yes." she tried to edge away slowly. "You don't love me, Roy. I think you love the person you expect me to be. You hit me-"

"You make me! If you would just do what I ask I wouldn't react that way! It's your fault we're in this mess now!" Roy slammed his hand furiously against the wall, his open palm just inches from her head.

"You hit me." She repeated as calmly as she could. "You hurt me when you are faced with me, not the fantasy woman who does everything right that you think I should be."

Roy stared at her with fresh-faced fury. He turned an alarmingly dangerous shade of red, his temper flared and the man visibly shook as the rage burned through him like fire.

"I am leaving Roy. I-I don't want to fight now. Please let me go." She stood firm, her shaking voice betraying her fear.

"You are not going anywhere." his voice had gone deathly quiet, and then he was moving towards her with clenched fists.

"Yes, I-" His palm smashed round in a circular motion, landing sharply on her cheek. Pam's eyes watered as she thudded back against the wall. Roy stood in front of her, hands balled into fists again, looking as furious as she had ever seen him.

"I'm going." She repeated, yelping as Roy yanked her roughly away from the wall and pushed her down on to the carpet. Then he threw himself on top of her, grappling her protesting hands, pinning her down.

He hit her many times, during their struggle. Roy usually worked on her lower body, but this night his rage was so great he didn't care what marks he left visible on her. Pam put up a defence, something she had never ever done. She slapped back at him, something she definitely had never ever done before. Roy spewed out an extensive string of expletives at her, his rage unrelenting.

"No one else would ever want you. Remember." he snarled down at her. Rough hands clamped around her throat, rough, callused fingers almost kneading at her flesh, working, pressing, squeezing. Pam tried to gasp, tried to scream, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish. Her fingers flew up to push at Roy, at whatever part of him she could find, and she pushed at what felt like an arm and scraped at something that seemed like skin and then without warning it all simply stopped and she was outside of her body, a spectator outside the ropes, while she was fighting for her life.

She was going to die. Her body was dying.

There was her mom, her dad, Penny. There were the children she would never have. There was Jim, and Jim's smile, Jim always happy to see her. In a matter of minutes it would all be nothing. Gone.

She gasped raggedly up at Roy, colourful spots dancing before her eyes. She was inside herself again, a burning pain searing red hot across her left shoulder. A choked moan escaped her lips. Pam rolled her aching head to her left. Little raindrops of blood were glistening on the carpet. A thought struck her, that seemed entirely rational to her at that moment– she would have to clean that up, Roy hated stains on the carpet – when a sudden snort flew out of her. Her fingernails raked down soft flesh, tearing into ragged skin. The pressure around her neck loosened, and she dug in harder with her nails, turning them into claws and digging into the flesh. A ferocious roar erupted from above her, a wolfish, untamed rage that rattled her bones.

Then there was air, blessed, beautiful oxygen filling her nose and throat and into her lungs. She gasped. She choked. She coughed. She saw the drops of blood on the carpet like breadcrumbs. Roy would make her clean it up. The rules are simple and set in stone, she thought hysterically. A furious laugh snorted out of her. It was sharp and brutal and did not sound like any sound she had ever made before. And they were not her arms pushing, pushing, batting the hands away that were going for her throat again. It was not her knee that jerked up, smashing into a thick midsection, stopping the man in midmotion.

Roy gaped at her, eyes wild and bright with pain.

It was now or never. Do or die. Pam shoved at him with all the strength she could muster, panting, eliciting gasps and yelps as every movement she made caused a muscle or bone to cry out in pain. She was not done fighting for her life.

Roy fell backwards, his face contorting with naked confusion and anger. This was not the way things usually went. Scrambling to his feet, he lunged towards her, arms thrown out in front ready to grab her and hoist her off the floor. His left foot came down on her bottle of contact solution, lying in the debris of bag items he had scattered around the hall. He wobbled, thrust towards her and then his boot flew out from under him sending him arcing backwards on to the carpet.

Pam saw all of this in a blurry split second, and with the aid of the stair railing she was able to tug herself up to stand. Roy grunted from the floor and the sound was enough for her. Adrenaline soared into her veins, her lungs, her whole being and she moved. She ran. She ran, ears ringing and dark, fuzzy shapes in front of her vision but she did it, she ran. She did not feel pain or anything but terror and one basic need propelling her out the door: survival.

Pam fled away from Roy, not looking back. She reached the door, flung it open, dimly aware of the thunderous footsteps suddenly looming threateningly behind her. She ran down the street, her nose bloodied, cheek swelling and her shirt ripped clear at the shoulder.

She ran, until a red hot burst of pain in her heels and toes returned, mindless of the tears coursing down her face, pink with blood. She ran and ran until the pain was too much and she stopped, doubled over and vomited over the sidewalk, an action that hurt her from deep inside her stomach and her raw throat. She looked behind her in the street. Darkness.

She moved again, forward, she had to keep moving. She limped on, and on, shuffling one foot after another until eventually, relief drove up in a shiny grey taxi. She hailed it, gratefully.