I see the wooden block of knives on the countertop. He follows the gaze of my eyes.
I wonder which of us will get to it first.
WILL
She’s weak as a kitten. It’s laughable, really.
But it’s time to end this thing once and for all. No use putting it off any longer.
I come at her quickly, wrap my hands around that pretty little neck of hers and squeeze. Her airflow is restricted because of it. I watch on as panic sets in. I see it in her eyes first, the way they widen in fright. Her hands clamp down on mine, scratching her little kitten claws to get me to release.
This won’t take long, only about ten seconds until she loses consciousness.
Sadie can’t scream because of the pressure on her throat. Other than a few insubstantial gasps, all is quiet. Sadie never has been much of a conversationalist anyway.
Manual strangulation is an intimate thing. It’s much different than other ways of killing. You have to be in close proximity to whoever it is you’re killing. There’s manual labor involved, unlike with a gun where you can fire off three rounds from the other side of the room and call it a day. But because of the work involved, there’s a sense of pride that comes, too, of accomplishment, like painting a house or building a shed or chopping firewood.
The upside, of course, is there isn’t much of a mess to clean.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am it’s come to this,” I say to Sadie as her arms and legs flail and she tries pathetically to fight back. She’s tiring out. Her eyes roll back. Her blows are getting weaker. She tries to gouge my eyes out with her fingertips, but her thrust isn’t strong or quick. I draw back, her efforts wasted. There’s a pretty tinge to Sadie’s skin.
I press harder, say, “You’re too smart for your own good, Sadie. If only you’d have let it be, this wouldn’t be happening. But I can’t have you go around telling people what I did. I’m sure you understand. And since you can’t keep your own mouth closed,” I tell her, “it’s up to me to shut you up for good.”
SADIE
I deliberately collapse, my weight suspended only by his hands around my neck. It’s a desperate attempt, a last-ditch effort. Because if I fail, I will die. As my vision blurs, fading in and out in those final moments, I see my children. I see Otto and Tate living here alone with Will.
I have to fight. For my children’s sake, I cannot die. I cannot leave them with him.
I have to live.
The pain gets worse before it gets better. Because without the strength of my legs and my spine to hold me upright, his grip on my neck intensifies. He bears the weight of my entire body in his hands. There’s a prickling sensation in my limbs. They go numb. The pain is excruciating, in my head and in my neck, and I think that I will die. I think that this is what it feels like to die.
In his arms, I am limp.
Thinking he’s succeeded in his task, Will loosens his hold. He eases my body to the floor. He’s gentle at first, but then drops me the last couples of inches. He isn’t trying to be gentle. He’s trying to be quiet. My body falls, colliding with the cold tile. I try not to react, but the pain is almost too much to bear—not from the fall itself, but from what this man has already done to me. There’s the greatest need to cough, to gasp, to throw my hands to my throat.
But if I want to live I have to suppress the need, to lie there motionless instead, unblinking and unbreathing.
Will turns his back on me. Only then do I steal a single short, shallow breath. I hear him. He starts making plans of how to get rid of my body. He’s moving quickly because the kids are just upstairs and he knows he can’t delay.
An unwanted thought comes to me and I fill with horror. If Otto or sweet little Tate were to come down now and see us, what would Will do? Would he kill them, too?
Will unlocks and pulls open the sliding glass door. He tugs open the screen. I don’t watch. But I listen and hear him do these things.
He finds his keys on the counter. There’s the sound of metal scraping against the Formica countertop. The keys jangle in his hand and then are quiet. I imagine he’s forced them into his jeans pocket, making plans to drag me out the back door and into his car. But what then? I’m no match for Will. He can easily overpower me. There are things I can use in the kitchen to defend myself with. But outside, there is nothing. Only the dogs who love Will more than they love me.
If Will gets me through the doors, I don’t stand a chance. I need to think, and I need to think quickly, before he’s able to haul me out.
Still as a statue on the kitchen floor, I’m as good as dead to him.
He doesn’t check for a pulse. His one and only mistake.
It’s not lost on me, the fact that Will doesn’t show remorse. He doesn’t grieve. He isn’t sad that I am gone.
Will is all business as he leans over my body. He quickly assesses the situation. I feel his nearness to me. I hold my breath. The buildup of carbon dioxide burns inside of me. It becomes more than I can bear. I think that I will involuntarily breathe. That, as Will watches on, I’ll no longer be able to hold my breath. If I breathe, he will know. And if he discovers I’m alive as I’m lying flat on my back as I am, I’ll have no capacity to fight back.
My heart beats hard and fast in fear. I wonder how he can’t hear it, how he can’t see the movement through the thin pajama shirt. Saliva collects inside my throat, all but gagging me, and I’m overwhelmed by the greatest need to swallow. To breathe.
