“I said get up!” David screamed.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me.
Another spurt of blood. The pain was blinding now.
I realized then, with a clarity that pierced through the agony, that he didn’t care. He didn’t love me. He didn’t love our son. He loved his image. He loved his control.
To him, I wasn’t a person. I was an accessory.
And my propeller was broken.
My hand trembled as I reached into my apron pocket. My phone. I needed my phone.
“I’m going to call the police,” I sobbed.
David saw the screen light up. His eyes went black.
