As he stammered the address, I leaned back against the cold cabinets, the pain in my abdomen a roaring fire. I looked at the blood on the floor. I looked at my husband, who was now begging a dispatcher for help. I looked at Sylvia, who was shrinking against the doorframe, a lifetime of cruelty catching up with her in an instant.
The sirens seemed to arrive in seconds, though it was probably only minutes. Paramedics flooded the kitchen, their efficient movements a stark contrast to the chaos of the last few hours. They lifted me onto a stretcher, asking questions, taking my vitals.
As they wheeled me out, past a stunned and silent David, past a weeping Sylvia, my phone, which I had clutched in my hand the entire time, buzzed. A text from my father.
I’m on my way to the hospital. So are the police. It’s over, Anna Banana. You’re safe now.
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