“I’m not eating any of that slop you cook.”

That hurt, and it pissed me off. “Fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest in defense and said nothing. He muttered under his breath for an hour but said nothing I could understand.

Finally, he grumbled, “I’m hungry.”

Silent, I got up, filled a plate, heated it up, and took it to him. He jerked it from my hand and I sat down, to upset to eat though I’d made enough for both of us. He took a couple eof bites and then tossed the plate onto the bed. Oh, I was steamed. “What, you don’t want it now?”

He slammed the plate back, catching me across the throat. Fury spiked, hot and fast. Swallowing hard, blinking back tears, I picked up the plate and threw it, not at him, but across the room. It hit the dresser and broke into four large pieces, food scattering everywhere. Temper spent, I started picking up pieces and food, throwing everything in the trash. This reminds me of one time he went into the kitchen and started shoving dishes and stuff out of the cabinets onto the floor, where things broke, of course, and again I cleaned up the mess. Again, he went to the kitchen, throwing things around and breaking dishes.

While picking things up in the kitchen, he yelled,” I’m bleeding and you don’t f****** care!”

Trying to at least sound calm when my heart was pounding, I said, “I’m cleaning this up so you don’t step on it.”

“I’m bleeding! You don’t give a shit.”

Sighing, I wet a cloth and grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and went to him. Blood trickled from long slice along his calf. I cleaned the wound and wrapped more dry cloth around it. The bleeding stopped right away but I never knew if a piece of the broken plate cut him or he cut himself on a nail sticking out of a make shift book shelf.

His penchant for violence finally got him arrested just before Thanksgiving in 2008. We were arguing, as usual on a week night. He raged at me about no job, leeching off his back, all that stuff, went towards the kitchen and suddenly stopped. Snatching up two large knives, he threatened to kill me! He even toward me, glaring at me. “I’ll kill you just like that.”

I cringed, froze in place and just gaped at him. Finally, for some reason, he stabbed the knives into the dish rack and stormed out the door. Not a second passed before I bolted from the bed and bolted the door again him. My heart pounded so fast and loud I just knew everyone in the building heard it. I called 911 and reported it. When the police appeared, he was no where to be seen, not in the dark of the night. I told the officer I didn’t want him there, I didn’t want him coming back, after I described the incident. The officer joined his colleagues outside and I stepped out the door, spotting Bill hunched down in my car. I pointed him out and stepped back inside, closing the door. A few minutes later, the officer returned and told me Bill had been told to go somewhere else for the night since I didn’t want him there. If he showed up again, I should call 911.

About half an hour later, he returned, knocking on the door demanding I let him in. I refused and kept the door locked and bolted. I immediately called 911. When the police returned just seconds later, he was arrested and taken to jail.

This should have been the end of Bill and I, but the aftermath dragged on a bit longer since I’d hope he’d finally see the light. Instead, I was the one enlightened, as you’ll see in the next article, Fleeing the Flames of Hell.