“What do you think of your precious rug now?” he sneers. “What’s so fucking special about it now?”

I approach him steadily, holding out the bottle of Ativan. “Please, baby. You know I love you. Please.”

For his response, he scoops up a pile of excrement and smears it across his bare belly.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he says, calmer now, conversational.

I don’t say a word, just hold out the bottle of tablets.

“I’m gonna do it in the middle of the night. But I’ll wake you up first. I want you to know.”

I hold out the tablets.

“You locked up the knives,” he chants. “You locked up the knives. But did you lock up all the knives? Did you, did you, did you?”

He smiles, gleefully, and my gaze goes instinctively to the drying rack, contents now strewn across the kitchen floor. Had there been a knife in that rack? Had I washed one just this morning? I can’t remember, and that’s going to cost me. Something is always going to cost me.

I twist off the lid of the prescription bottle. “It’s time to rest, sweetheart. You know you’ll feel better after you’ve had a little rest.”

I pour a couple of tablets into the palm of my hand, stepping close enough that the heat and stench of his body flood my nostrils. Slowly, I open his mouth with one finger and poke the first quick-dissolving tablet into the pouch of his cheek.

In turn, he cups his stained fingers around my neck and, almost tenderly, rubs the hollow of my neck.

“I will kill you quickly,” he promises me. “With a knife. I’ll slide the blade in. Right here.”

His thumb brushes over the pulse beating wildly in my throat, as if he’s mentally rehearsing the death blow.

Then I can see his facial muscles start to relax as the drug takes effect. His hand falls away, and he smiles again. Sweetly now. A ray of sunshine through the storm, and I want to cry but I don’t. I don’t.

There are pieces of yourself, so many pieces of yourself, that, once you give away, you cannot get back again.

Ten minutes later, I have him in bed. I strip off what remains of his clothes. Wipe down his body with a soapy washcloth, though I know from previous experience that the smell of excrement will linger on his skin. Later, he will ask me questions about that, and I will lie to him with my answers, because that’s what I’ve learned to do.

I clean him up. I clean me up. The dishes will go through the dishwasher, then be replaced in the cupboards. The rug will be left on the curb on trash day. But all that can wait.