Chapter 93

The knife gleams across the kitchen floor, and I don’t even know how it got there. 
It’s all a blur. 
I drag myself with the force of sheer hatred towards him. Logan is unconscious. However, with the first punch that my good hand gives him, he wakes up.
This energy bubbling inside me fills me with strength. 
I feel like it is a *power* if I can honestly call it that. It feels like it’s always been there, buried deep inside me, but *it* or *I* didn’t *want* to or *couldn’t* awaken it until… I couldn’t hold it back anymore. 
It happens almost instinctively. Naturally. My hand is engulfed in this dark, invisible light—I can’t see it, but I can *feel* it. Without hesitation, I drive my good fist into Logan’s face again, cutting him off mid-sentence as he says my name, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
“That’s for the first time you slapped me and then said you’re sorry.” 
Another punch. 
Logan’s head snaps to the side, and though he tries to raise his hands to shield himself, I don’t stop. “That’s for the first time you punched me and then blamed me for making you do that.” 
Tears come out of my eyes, but I can’t wipe them away, feeling all the slaps and punches he hit me not only in the last few months but also in the years I was married to him. 
“That’s for the first time you threw me into the wall and said you would *never* do that again.” 
Pow. 
“That’s for the first time you choked me until I passed out.” 
With barely a thought of direction, the power flows to my fist like the most natural thing in the world. Like this is how it is supposed to be used. So I give it to it, feeling like a beat of music in every punch that power lands.  
I keep hitting him, over and over, the force of each blow fueled by everything I’ve held back for so long.
Blood trickles from his face where my fists landed, and his arms, which had been raised in defense, have long since dropped to his sides, motionless. 
“That’s for all the other times—because you didn’t stop after the first or the second. You just kept hitting me!” Pow. “Over and over again!”
Every strike feels like my fist is a sledgehammer, slamming into him with brutal, bone-jarring force.
When my arm grows tired of aiming for his face, I shift my focus and drive my fist into his chest instead. I don’t stop—I can’t stop.
I sob, staring at his half-open eyes. I hit him again. “That’s for every scar you left on me!” 
I slam my fist into his gut, then go straight for his groin, hitting him hatefully over and over.
“That’s for forcing yourself on me.” Pow. Pow. Pow. “I hate you, Logan!” The voice that comes from my throat doesn’t seem like my own. It is darker, deeper, and a little bit ancient.
I don’t even register his reactions or the ache of my own wounds. I just keep going relentlessly, like a woman possessed. 
My breaths come heavy and ragged as I finally pull back, dragging myself away from him. 
I climb to my feet, my face, arm, and ribs throbbing, my knee in agony. 
My body is nothing but a wreck—battered, broken, and screaming with every heartbeat. But when I look down at Logan, he’s not in much better shape. The room tilts around me, the world blurring into a haze of pure hatred. I latch onto it, using it to push myself up, ready to land the final blow.  
Dark light surges through my fist.
Pulsing in my chest.
Burning on my *tongue*. 
And when it floods my vision, I know—I’m ready to end him.
I stagger back, the searing pain in my face radiating through me. What he’d have *done* to me if I hadn’t fought back isn’t something I could survive… My body trembles with pain. Without a word this time, I raise my hand, but not to hit him. 
I feel deep inside me that pointing in his direction with my index finger and my words will be enough.
The metallic tang of blood flooded my mouth. And the taste of blood somehow seems to enhance the black light even more. Consuming it.
I’m sick of all the damage Logan has caused me. There have been so many signs! If only I'd taken note of them. I blink hard, remembering the time Logan hurt my arm when I’d paid the bills instead of giving him all the money. I’d told myself it was my fault for not earning more, that I should work more so that he’d be happy because when Logan was happy he didn’t hurt me. 
Unfortunately, it was all lies to make myself feel better.
I didn’t fully grasp how toxic and abusive he was until after our divorce. And even when we got back together, and I finally saw it for what it was, I still didn’t know how to break free.  
But now I do.  
He’s not going to hurt me anymore. 
He’s not going to leave scars on me ever again. Because this time—I’m going to kill him first.
Right before I point my index finger at Logan, tasting my blood in my mouth, I hear my son’s frightened voice behind me. 
“Mom?”
I wince, tensing as I turn around to look at him, dreading what I’ll see. 
Az’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair dripping wet, and soap suds cling to his neck as water trickles down, pooling on the floor. “What did you... what did you do?” 
My eyes watch everything happening before me like it’s in slow motion as Az’s frightened eyes leave mine and land on his dad on the bloody floor. “What did you do to Dad?”
Stepping towards us, Az’s frightened green eyes travel to me again. They linger on my face and my limp body.
His breath hitches. Then his little hands curl into fists. 
As he gets a good look at the state of my face, a low, trembling growl builds in his throat before he turns to Logan and growls loudly at him. 
But before my son can say anything, Logan snarls, “You bitch! When I get up, I’m going to kill you! If you think what I did was bad, just wait until I catch you again!”
Az growls louder, and then he snaps. 
He charges forward to his father, vibrating with rage. “Did you hit my mother?” His voice is sharp, furious, nothing like my baby boy.
“Az, son, stay away.” I throw my good arm around him, yanking him back against me, but he’s shaking so hard I can barely hold on. “You’re going to end up hurting yourself.”
I feel Az trembling with rage, his skin so hot that it feels like a furnace. My fingers lightly try to calm him down, but I’m in too much pain to do anything more.
Az bares his teeth to Logan like an animal. Then, with no warning, he wrenches out of my grip and slams his fist into his father’s face. 
Logan’s head snaps back. More blood sprays.  
I gasp. Az is just a boy—a ten-year-old boy—but his punch lands with more force than I ever imagined. 
“Son, please, stop!” I beg, trying to pull him back.
But Az isn’t listening. His face is twisted with fury, his breathing ragged. 
“He did this to you, Mom!” Az punches his father in the face, his small, clean hands now stained with his father’s blood. “He did this to you!”  
Logan groans, barely conscious. 
“Honey, calm down!”
Then, through his split lips, Logan rasps, “You monster…”  
Az freezes. His fist hangs in the air, trembling. His breathing is erratic, chest heaving.  
Something in his face cracks.  
My heart shatters.  
“I don’t have a family anymore,” Logan adds before falling unconscious again.
“Az,” I say, holding back tears. My mind is spinning, but there’s no time to fall apart now. I push through the pain. “Go-go get dressed. Pack your things. Let’s go.”
Az doesn’t look at me, he just obeys, walking away from Logan as if he can’t stand looking at his father anymore. With pain, contempt and disgust all at the same time in his eyes. I’ve never seen my son even look at his father with any of those things before.
As we hurry to our rooms, I brace myself when Az finally speaks. His voice is hollow. “I’m so sorry, Mom.” His steps falter, and his lip trembles. “I’m so sorry... I’ve been suspecting... but I didn’t know… I didn’t know... I—I’m really sorry, Mommy.”  
Tears sting my eyes.  
Finally, his eyes meet mine, and I pull him into me with my one good arm, holding him as tightly as I can. “Shh, baby, it’s not your fault.”
“It is.” His voice cracks, his arms squeezing me. “I’m the one who begged for us to be a family again. If I hadn’t... if I hadn’t pushed so hard... you wouldn’t have—”  
“Stop.” My hand rubs soothing circles on his back, even as pain shoots up my arm. “Listen to me. This is not your fault. Not even a little bit. Do you hear me?”  
Az nods against my shoulder. Yet, I know he doesn’t believe me.  
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, unaware that it hurts, before he enters his room. I avoid flinching until he’s out of sight.
The pain in my ribs is loud in my ears. It’s absolutely blinding. 
I lay my forehead on the bedroom door as I contemplate where I go from here. 
How the hell do I get out of this? 
Leave Logan. 
Get out. 
Run. 
We don’t need him. 
I don’t have to see him ever again. 
We’re leaving.  
And this time, we’re never coming back.
I whimper again before I drag myself to the bathroom and wash my face and hands. Then I start to pack my things.
As I put some clothes in my backpack, I realized two things. 
The first thing is that I’m no better than Ethan. 
I called him a murderer several times, but in the end, the only reason I didn’t actually kill Logan was because Az showed up first. 
That’s it. 
That’s all. 
I was going to kill him. 
I was happy about it. Satisfied, if I’m honest with myself. 
I’m as good as Ethan.
The other thing I realize is that I can feel other *things*, too. Things I’ve never felt before.
The sensation is like a summoning, a calling. 
No. 
It’s like it’s singing to me. 
But I’m scared. I don’t want to hear its song, especially if it means that more horrible things will happen, like what had just happened. I don’t want to hurt anyone like that again. I’m scared of myself. I’m scared of this light inside me.
I try to mentally make it smaller, making it into something so small inside me that there’s no room for it to take my place.
Because when I was attacking Logan, it was like something wrenched inside of me, the burning getting too hot, too big. 
It had to get out. 
I couldn’t say what the thought process was for what I wanted to do next—kill him. 
At that moment, I didn’t want to keep all this burning-hot agony inside me. I wanted to shove it out. 
Now that I feel just a fraction of that light, I can feel a sense of awareness of the things around me. I can’t explain it. It’s like a foreboding. The last time I felt anything remotely like that was at the Black Moon Festival. I recall Vi’s words that day that I wouldn’t see it, but I would feel the Black Moon.
At that time, this energy has pulsed beneath my fingertips, warming the threads with the foreboding breath of something foul. I shake away a chill and grab my backpack, leaving all the rest behind.
This calling and everything that happened feels like a dream. Except it must be real because the way my insides burn and the dried blood on my face tell a different story than the one I want to convince myself of. 
Before I can even reach Az, he’s already striding toward me, fully dressed with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He extends the car keys in my direction without a word. I take them, and together, we head out of the house, making our way to the garage. As I get in the car, I see Az looking around my head, his face tilted, and his gaze gets that far-off quality again like he is seeing something I can see. A small frown appears on his face.
I start the car and drive out of the house as if it were on fire. My whole body hurts, but I feel free. Free from an abusive relationship.
Sniffing, I ask just to hear my son’s voice so that my mind can quiet down a bit. “Did you get everything?”
Before Az can reply, I face front and keep driving as if I didn’t beat my ex-husband until I almost killed him or that I don’t have a target on my head whose monsters are ready to pounce at any second. 
No. I keep driving and driving.
For the first time, my son doesn’t fall asleep, even though it’s already his bedtime. Az stays awake next to me the whole time.
I don’t breathe my first sigh of relief until the big gate comes into view. For the second time, I am seeking refuge here.