My underwear was around my boots then, binding my ankles, my skirt gathered around my abdomen. With one hand he undid his zip. I managed to step out of the leg holes to free myself and pressed my arms up between us. Tried to hit his chest. But there wasn’t gap enough to have any impact. His jeans dropped to his trainers, his boxers with them. I could feel him, hard, trying to enter me. My attempts to fight him off lasted seconds, or minutes. Then somehow, from somewhere, I heard a guttural noise escape my throat. The monster inside returned. Reminding me what I am capable of.

I pressed harder against the cupboard. Created space between us. Found the strength to pull my leg as far back as possible before swinging it forward, punching my knee violently between his legs.

The suction of his lips broke, allowing me to scream, ‘You. Fucking. Disgust me.’

And it stopped.

He stepped away. Bent forward, grimacing, red, gathering himself from the pain. I dared not move when he reached down and pulled up his trousers, softly uttering, ‘I know. I know I do.’

Silence reigned. Aside from our short breaths. We stood, heads lowered, deactivated. I pulled down my skirt to cover myself, closing my eyes to soak in the relief.

Then smack. His fist hit my mouth.

So hard it twisted me into a pirouette. I fell forward onto the kitchen counter. A shattering sensation seared through my face. Blood splattered the dishes. I spat red onto a plate, expecting a tooth to join it, but it remained. Loose and throbbing. I couldn’t move, breathe. Paralyzed by shock. Until I saw the blade of the knife that gleamed near my eyeball and gripped on to it, tight.

He was sobbing when I turned. Pathetic.

‘Oh my God, Constance . . . I’m so sorry . . . Oh shit. It’s because I love you so much. Oh my God . . . I’m so sorry . . .’ The words looped as he paced the kitchen. Alternating between pulling and smoothing his hair.

He didn’t even notice the weapon that I held out, ready, at a right angle as I watched him, broken, pitiful.

I let it fall to the floor. Launched myself away from the counter. Pushed past him.

‘No . . . Where are you going? Constance . . . I’m so sorry. I’m drunk . . . I love you so much.’

I turned to him. Dabbed the blood on my lip with my fingers. ‘What just happened here, Dale, isn’t love.’

Unsteady, knocking myself against the door frame, I left the kitchen. Stumbling through the hall to my room. Stuffing bits into my bag. I wasn’t sure what. Phone, cigarettes. Put on my coat. Terrified, knowing I’d have to return for the rest.