It wasn’t the first time he’d given her a black eye, broken her ribs, or left a purple-hot bruise where no one could see.
But by God, it was the last.
“That’s it.” Marnie whispered, holding a dish towel to her bloodied chin. “I’m done.”
“You ain’t goin’ no-damn-where,” he sneered. “You ain’t got the guts…”
He kept drinking and Marnie kept quiet.
Waiting.
Waiting.
When the time was right, she found her guts.
The following day, Marnie loaded up the Pontiac and headed home, to Chicago.
Her uncle would know what to do with the body parts in the trunk.
**
The Daily Post: Calm
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