Denial

All 6'7" of me towers over my husband. Tucked into a corner of the couch, blood dripping from his lower lip, his chest heaves with every breath. I rear my fist back, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed.

"Take it back."

He shakes his head, sweat beading on his forehead. "No. You're using again and I want you to stop."

My fist slams into his cheek. "Shut up, that's not true."

I grab his phone, throwing it against the wall. He bolts from the couch, but I'm faster. I glare at him, spittle flying when I grind out my next words.

"I'm not using again."

I swing, connecting with air. The back door slams. I run down the stairs, the back door crashing against the house. The world spins for a moment before I spot him.

"Jack!" I roar.

Gravel flies behind my shoes as I run for him. Foolishly, I left my gun in my truck. Dirt filters through my nose and down my throat. Face down on our gravel drive, a knee drives painfully into my back. The cold metal of handcuffs yanks my hands behind my back.

"I'm sorry."

Jack stands by as I'm dragged to a police car, the lights on top too bright. Someone in a brown uniform shoves me in the back. I don't listen as my rights are recited. I focus on Jack as another man embraces him. My head bows as one single tear rolls down my cheek.