The memory is a scattered one, moments flaring into bold clarity before fizzling into oxidized confusion.
"You ungrateful bitch," he seethes. His hands on your throat, wringing tight. You're clawing free and he slaps you, but only once.
The memory wanes into something cold, methodical. You know he's in the shower and you go down to the kitchen. Pulling loose a pair of pliers and a paring knife from the drawer, you head for the garage. One of your mother's boyfriends was a mechanic, and you know just where the brake line is.
You'll show him what happens to someone that hurts you.