Sometimes I dream about it.

The knife to my throat, its cold blade pressed against the jugular vein. I remember my heart racing, as if it was trying to make sure I bled out quickly. His eyes… that has to be the most painful memory. Eyes that had once been so full of love and happiness were now replaced with the heartless stare of a killer. I’m not sure how, but in my panic, I managed to coordinate the muscles in my arms to grab his wrist. Adrenaline helped me lead the knife away and pry it out of his hands. When the weapon hit the ground, so did my lover - no, attacker- unconscious. My energy drained and I dropped to determine the cause of his unprompted anger. I could find no source, and he claimed amnesia of the event when asked.

It’s been two years. He still says he doesn’t know why I left.