Too Late

Fucking bitch. I can’t believe she had the nerve to do that right in front of me.

I take my crucifix down the hallway to the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if that baby inside her is mine. Just knowing there’s a chance it could come out looking like Luke makes me fucking hate it. Knowing it was inside her when he fucked her right in front of me makes me fucking hate it.

I swing the crucifix at the mirror and smash it over and over.

Fucking bitch.

I walk upstairs and do the same to that mirror.

I don’t even want this fucking baby. It’s been inside her since March, and there’s no telling how many times Luke has been inside her since then. Even if it is my baby, he’s already tainted it. Pretty sure fetuses have ears, and every time Luke speaks out loud in the vicinity of Sloan, that baby probably thinks Luke’s fucking disgusting voice is its father.

When Sloan grows my baby inside her, Luke won’t fucking be around to corrupt my child.

I walk through every room, finding more things my tiny Jesus-on-a-stick can destroy. Lamps? Done. Vases? Smashed. Jesus-on-a-stick is on a rampage.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking baby.

Fucking Luke.

Every fucking nice thing I’ve ever had in my life has been destroyed by that man. My empire. The love of my life. My potential child. Everything that’s ever meant anything to me now means absolutely nothing to me because of him.

When I make it back to the kitchen, I open the bottle and swallow another pill. The sooner I’m able to get this ankle monitor off, the sooner I can destroy what he’s slowly corrupting.

I’ll be a dad when I’m goddamn ready to be a dad, and it’ll be to a child who isn’t a single goddamn part of that pathetic piece of shit.

This thing growing inside Sloan right now wasn’t made from love. Even if it’s mine, it wasn’t created innocently. She was allowing another man to corrupt her while I was making love to her at night. If I’d have known that, my dick would have never been inside her. I would have ended her before she went and made all the stupid decisions she’s made. She wouldn’t have had a fucking viable womb capable of creating life if I’d known what she was doing behind my back.

Now I just need to put a stop to it. I look at the screensaver on my laptop. It’s a screenshot of the moment she put her hands on her belly and smiled down at that fucking abomination. I pull a new chair around and I sit down and change my screensaver. I find a picture of Sloan from back when she was sweet. I make it my screensaver and I stare at it, wondering how she let this happen. How does she still have the audacity to smile when the whore doesn’t even know whose baby is inside her?

“Fucking whore.” I look down at the crucifix in my hand. “Jesus-on-a-stick, do you want to go on a little road trip with me tomorrow? I know a girl who has some serious repenting to do.”





In the last two weeks, I’ve cooked and photographed twenty-seven meals. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to keep my mind off the fact that I can’t leave my apartment, but this cookbook idea has completely taken over my thoughts.

When I’m not thinking about the pregnancy, of course. Which is every other moment.

I don’t know what I’d do without Luke. Part of me thinks he’s too good to be true. That men like him don’t really exist and that this is all some sort of wishful thinking on my part. I live in constant fear that he was only brought into my life so I would have to endure the pain of him being taken out of it. I hate those thoughts and I try not to think them, but I do. Constantly. I fear losing him more than I fear death.

But every afternoon when Luke comes home and wraps me in his arms and asks how “we’re” doing, it completely reinforces his claim that this baby is his. No matter who is biologically responsible for the conception, Luke loves it, simply because it’s inside me. That’s enough for him. And somehow, he makes me think it’s enough for me. When I’m actually in Luke’s presence, I feel a sense of self-worth. I feel all the things that Asa stripped from me.

I don’t know if I’m as good at forgiveness as Luke seems to be. He didn’t even make me feel ashamed, not even for a second. And he continues to remind me of how lucky he is, even though I know it’s the other way around. He always redirects my thoughts when I start to worry about Asa finding out about the pregnancy, or when I worry about the upcoming trial. But when he’s not here, like right now, the only thing that can redirect my thoughts is this cookbook.

I’m making lasagna tonight. I’m not sticking to a certain type of food, like specifically Italian or Asian. I’m including all of my favorite foods. I’m even including some of Asa’s favorites, like his damn coconut cake. I like that his favorite recipes are going in a cookbook that goes against everything he is as a person. It feels a little like revenge. For every two dollars this cookbook makes, it’s a dollar that helps women who have suffered at the hands of men like Asa.

So yes, I’m including his stupid fucking coconut cake and his stupid spaghetti and meatballs and even his stupid protein shake that he used to wake me up at the butt-crack of dawn to make for him. As much as I hate all the times he demanded I cook for him, at least some good will come of it. This whole cookbook is like a huge middle finger to Asa Jackson.

That’s a good idea, actually. I think I’ll incorporate a tiny little hand flipping the bird on all the pages, somehow. A cute little middle-finger emoji.

When I finish layering the noodles and sauce, I set the pan up to take another picture. I snap a few and then place the pan in the oven.

“What smells so good?”

I grip the counter at the sound of his voice.

Right behind me.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

It isn’t possible. The door is still dead bolted. All the windows are locked from the inside. I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.

I can feel myself slowly sinking to the kitchen floor as my body starts to fail me. I’m going into shock. I can feel it, I can feel it, no, no, no.

I’m on the floor. I slide my hands through my hair and against my ears, my palms shaking. I try to cover up the sound of his voice. If I don’t hear it, it’s not there. He’s not there. He’s not.

“Jesus, Sloan.” He’s closer now. “I thought you’d be a little more excited to see me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can hear him as he hoists himself up onto the counter next to me. I open my eyes and see his feet swinging close to the floor as his legs dangle at my side. There’s no ankle monitor. He wants me to see that. I know how his fucked up mind works.

How is this happening?

Where is my phone?

I feel sick. I force myself to breathe so I don’t pass out from fear.

“Lasagna, huh?” He tosses something onto the counter. “Never liked your lasagna much. You always used too much tomato sauce.”

I’m crying now. I scoot away from him, unable to find the strength to stand up. I keep scooting, knowing I won’t get anywhere, but hoping I somehow do.

“Where you going, baby?” he asks.

I try to pick myself up off the floor, but as soon as I come to a half-stand, he jumps off the counter and has his arms around me from behind. “Let’s go have a little chat,” he says, lifting me effortlessly off the floor.

I cry out in fear and a hand immediately clamps over my mouth. “I’m going to need you to be quiet while we chat,” he says, carrying me through the living room and into my bedroom. I still haven’t laid eyes on him yet.

I won’t.

I refuse to look at him.

Luke. Please, Luke. Come home, come home, come home.

Asa tosses me onto the bed and I immediately begin to crawl to the other side, but he grips my ankle and yanks me back. I’m on my stomach. I try to kick his hand off. I grab at a blanket, a pillow, anything my hands can touch, but my strength does little to defend me against him. In what feels like slow motion, he flips me onto my back and pins my hands down with his knees as he straddles me. He’s sitting on top of me, putting pressure against my stomach, and it’s then that I know he knows. It’s not something I can hide at this point.

That’s why he’s here.

I feel his fingers press against my eyelids and he forces them open. When I see his face, he’s smiling. “Hey, beautiful,” he says. “It’s rude not to make eye contact with someone when they’re trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

He’s fucking insane. And there’s nothing I can do to protect myself. Nothing I can do to protect my baby.

I cough up bile with my tears. Despite the fact that he has me pinned to the bed, completely at his mercy, I somehow still have lucid thoughts that flash through my head. Right now, in this second, I’m wondering how my life can mean so much to me. How the thought of dying fills me with so much fear, when just a few months ago, I honestly wouldn’t have cared. I used to pray Asa would just kill me and put me out of my misery. That was back when I had nothing to live for.

Now I have everything to live for.