Memories of Owen choking me kept me company in my car for hours. Bruises and red dashes across my skin pulsated in the darkness. His words belittling me, stripping me of all dignity, stealing all my self-worth, echoing against the walls of my mind. I came to a realization last night: I couldn’t live with him anymore. And I couldn’t survive without him. But with his insurance policy, I could rise again.

Now here I was, standing above my husband, my mind clear and my hatred fully formed.

How evil and love coexisted inside of me was a mystery I couldn’t solve. Owen had been my first love, the one who burrowed into my heart for keeps. No matter how much he had rotted on the inside, he was a gorgeous man to look at. He’d always taken great care of himself, working out regularly at the fitness club and eating healthily—which meant I’d had to give up some of my favorite Southern fried dishes. I’d often compared him to Bradley Cooper, my personal Hollywood heartthrob, but Owen would just shrug and say that looks weren’t everything. He was right. If only I had seen what was underneath the handsome façade, I wouldn’t be standing here contemplating murder.

The day we first met, he had approached me in the cafeteria, buttoned-up shirt straining against his rippling muscles, his posture straight and soldierly. And like a good little soldier, he was always ready for battle.

He battled against my friends to date me and won. Then he battled my parents for my hand in marriage and won again. He battled through our twenty-plus years together to maintain control. He won again and again, until now. Now it was my turn.

In the darkness I watched him lying there on his side, gray bedspread pulled up to his chin. Gray, the color of our life together. The color of our bland marriage, full of routine predictability because God forbid we ever go on an adventure together. We shopped at the same stores, dined at the same restaurants, prepared the same meals, spent our weekends doing the same thing over and over on endless repeat, day after week after month after year. Daring to color outside the lines would certainly send our lives crashing into the abyss, as far as Owen was concerned. And so on it went in predictable banality, so much that sometimes I wanted to lash out and do something daring just to see what would happen. Would our insular little world explode? Would we survive the change?