I shift slightly, and my ribs protest immediately, a sharp reminder of how close I came to never standing here at all. Every breath pulls tight across my chest, every second proof that I survived something that was never meant to be survived.
I close my eyes briefly, and all I see is my wife.
Her smile.
Her eyes.
The way she looked at me like I was someone worth loving.
I died on that basement floor.
I know I did.
I felt it.
I felt the moment everything slipped, when the world dimmed and the sound of her voice became the only thing tethering me to what remained. I remember wanting to reach for her, wanting to tell her not to be afraid, even as I disappeared.
Yet, against all odds…I came back.
I came back to an empty room.
I feel my jaw tighten as helplessness claws its way up my spine, familiar and poisonous. It settles deep, coiling in my chest beside something far more dangerous.
Resolve.
I made a promise to her.
Not in a church. Not in front of witnesses.
I made it in the quiet moments, with her head resting over my heart and her future placed trustingly in my hands.
She would hurt no more.
No one would ever mark her skin again.
No one would ever take her from me.
Because I died once already.
I did not claw my way back from the dark just to fail her now.
If the world thinks it can touch what belongs to me and survive, it has gravely miscalculated.
Because I am no longer the man I was before that night.
I am what remains.
I will burn every last piece of this earth to ash before I ever let her suffer again.
The thought alone—of someone touching her, frightening her, controlling her—makes my chest seize, my heart hammering hard enough that I feel it all the way down to my ribs. I squeeze the coffee cup until the lid creaks, nails digging into the plastic, and the old wounds flare, stabbing reminders that the fire inside me is far from spent.
The door opens behind me.
“You ready to get out of here, brother?”
Chace.
“Does the pope shit in his hat?” I mutter without looking.
