Free Kill Process by William Hertling Page B

problem in the first place. That’s the way it is. I should have been able to count on my husband to protect me, not hurt me.
    “Well, do you live in the apartments or don’t you?”
    It never crosses his mind the last thing she’d want is some asshole in a bar who obviously violates boundaries to know where she lives. But it’s printed right there on her license.
    I will not let this go on. My hands tightens around the stun gun in my bag. Eighteen million volts will lay the asshole on the ground.
    I’m five feet away when he gets off the barstool, and my limbic system remembers he’s not some abstract threat, but a real live man an arm’s reach away. It’s like opening a closet door to find a lion charging right at you. I freeze solid, mid-stride, hand inside my bag wrapped around the stun gun. There’s a roar in my ears and I’m dead stuck.
    The girl looks around for help again, sees me right there, and her eyes plead with me. If the two of us argue with him, her eyes say, surely then he’ll give up the license.
    Yes, I want to say, I’ll help you. This is what I do, after all, I make these situations right. Together we can beat him. But I’m locked inside my body, inside my mind, and although I’ll later have these retroactive thoughts, right now I’m consumed with terror, like imminent death is upon me.
    He is the predator, I am the prey, and my body has decided only absolute stillness can save me. I wish I could say I could fight it, grabbing the stun gun tighter as I struggle against the paralysis. However, that would be lying, because in this moment there is nothing except life-strangling fear.
    Something blocks my view of the predator, and I distantly recognize Emily’s voice. She says something to the doorman, takes the driver’s license, hands it to the girl. Her words are garbled as she turns to me, grabs my arm, and pulls me outside, my body resisting all the while.
    Outside, I’m still numb. I’m distantly aware of Emily going through my bag, prying my hand off the stun gun, and pawing through the contents until she comes up with a blister pack of olanzapine, breaks out a pill, and slips it under my tongue. She zips my bag up, pushes me back against the wall, and pushes down on my shoulders a few times, harder and harder, until I finally sit on a bench.
    I sit and stare directly ahead without moving. Emily sighs and pulls out her phone.
    It’s maybe ten minutes later when I turn my head and look at her.
    “Why’d you get involved?” Emily says.
    My brain tries to reconnect with my vocal cords. “She needed help.”
    “You can’t help.”
    “I can, I can help people like her.”
    “No,” Emily says. “You can barely keep yourself going. Don’t interfere in other people’s shit. Come on, this is us.”
    She grabs me by the elbow, pulls me toward a car idling by the curb.
    Tomorrow I’ll replay this conversation in my head. If she was less drunk she might have said something different, encouraged me for trying, and told me I will eventually be able to do it. I’m not sure which Emily is right.

CHAPTER 9
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    D OMESTIC VIOLENCE doesn’t start with abuse. It begins with charm, love, and seduction. I know this from personal experience. My husband was a paragon of support, a loving partner who comforted me when I was going through my biggest professional challenge. That lasted one year, five months, and six days.
    Abusers know exactly how long it takes to establish dependency. There’s nothing random about their behavior. Place a group of domestic violence offenders together in a room, and they’ll compare notes. How long before you move? When do you suggest they quit their job? Six, twelve, or eighteen months before it’s okay to threaten them? They approach their victims like an experienced bank robber planning a high-stakes heist.
    I’ve researched Nancy and Todd’s relationship, looking through old photos, status updates, and especially the messages Nancy exchanged with her