The stairs are mine, the house is mine, everything in it is mine. So his blood is mine.

I think that he’s hit me one too many times, don’t you? I think that he should stop beating our children. I think that someone should teach him a lesson. But nobody does, so I’m going to.

I took a knife to bed. I held it in my fist beneath the pillow and waited for him to stagger drunkenly in from the pub. I waited to hear the children sobbing and the dog whimpering. I waited even when he rolled into bed and pressed up against me, drink-kissed breath strong near my ear and against my face.

I didn’t want to wait for him to sleep. I wanted to see his face as he died so I waited until he was on top of me and undoing my nightie.

I drew the knife from under my head and plunged it into his neck. It wasn’t an instantly fatal wound and he slapped me hard across the face. He rolled onto his back, gurgling. A fountain of dark blood spurted onto the dirty sheets.

“I’ve had enough!”

I don’t wait to see him die.