The Coming Cold

The air whispered softly to Charlotte. Morning dew perched boldly on every surface. It seemed the world was still asleep. Charlotte, however, was wide awake. Fear was so thick she nearly choked on it. She looked down at the faces of her two small children, warning them with her eyes, begging them not to make a sound. Her husband’s screams were violent, deep, demanding. He had come barreling out of the house just a few moments ago, belting out her name.

He was supposed to still be sleeping off the night before while they made their getaway. Maybe he felt the emptiness of the house when they left. Maybe he was hungover. Maybe he was still a little drunk. She wasn’t sure and she didn’t want to find out. She knew if he found her, she might not make it out alive. A few years ago, when she was pregnant with their second child, she had tried to leave. He found her with a friend.

She still remembered every painful second of that attack. The slaps, hits, cursing. He grabbed her hair and dragged her back to their car. She fell at one point, and he kept dragging. The rock drive scrapped her legs unforgivingly as he pulled her crying back to the truck. She still had the scars from that attack. Her friend had called the police, but it didn’t do any good. Pressing charges only made him angrier, and some paper in a courthouse somewhere wasn’t going to stop him from coming for her. She remembered her son looking at her that day with dead eyes. He was only three, but she knew he was broken inside. There were no longer any tears, just the deadness that slips in when you’ve seen too much too early. At that moment she knew she had to get away. She would need a better, safer plan.

Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him wander around the front yard demanding her to come. For a fleeting second, she thought about making some excuse about why they were out so early and try to pretend she hadn’t sneaked out. In her gut, she knew that wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t believe her, and her boys would have to watch what he did to her. No. This was happening right now. There would be no turning back. She had to escape.

Charlotte prayed under her breath and begged God to make up go back inside. Maybe he would give up. She could run to the tree line of the woods like she planned and head for the pond where she had tied the boat. The boat had come a few days ago, drifted over from somewhere. She tied it up and prayed no one would come looking for it before they could make their escape. All she could think about, hunkered down in the tall grass with her boys, was getting to that boat. It promised safety on the other side of thawing pond beyond the little piece of woods behind their house.

Clark paced aggressively thundering back and forth in front of their home. She sat silently, kneeling a few hundred feet away, waiting for a moment to flee. She imagined how long it would take her to get to the boat with the two young boys and wondered how fast Clark could chase after them. Were the two hundred or so yards enough of a head start? Her eyes stayed intently on the raging monster in her front yard. She did not like her assessment.

When they got married eight years ago, for the first time in her life, she felt loved. She was in school, excited to become a nurse, and graduated two months before their wedding. Things were stressful that first year. There were several excuses as to why she couldn’t get a job. One evening he wrecked her car. Looking back on it, she isn’t entirely sure it wasn’t done on purpose to keep her from having her own vehicle. Without a car, she couldn’t get a job. The first year was financially stressful. He would work erratically. Sometimes they would have a surplus of money, he would be working sixty or seventy hours a week. He would burn out and cut his hours down to twenty or thirty hours a week. Sometimes she would have to dig in the couch cushions or walk around the apartment complex to find a few dollars in change just to get a cheeseburger off the dollar menu at the McDonald’s across the street.

After a year of this, he found a rental house about forty minutes outside town that was half the price of the apartment. He told her it would be so much less stressful because of the price, and even promised they would save any extra for a down payment on their own house in a few years. The house was barely livable, but it had a little land. She was excited and dreamed of a garden, some chickens, maybe a few sheep. After all, she was a country girl. City life in an apartment had never really suited her. They moved into the run-down country house, and everything seemed good again. In the winter she even enjoyed ice skating on the little pond outback.

Shortly after their move, she found out she was expecting their first baby. That is when the true abuse began. He had the house phone turned off; it was expensive. He would stay out for hours, sometimes not even coming home. She had no way to get ahold of him or anyone. He would tell her people didn’t like her outgoing personality, so she tried to be quieter. She withdrew from friendships. She didn’t have a way to talk to anyone anyway. At one point, he took her debit card. She could no longer buy things. He never gave her any money to keep on hand. If she wanted anything he would ride with her to the store and pay for it. If he didn’t think she needed it, he wouldn’t pay for it. Slowly, she became a prisoner instead of a wife.

This time, knowing how isolated he had her, she knew she needed a solid plan. The nearest neighbor was almost a mile away. However, the neighbor behind them was just on the other side of the pond. When the boat found its way to her shore, she decided right then that would be her escape route. At least she knew she wouldn’t have to worry about the boys being too slow or too tired. She had also been watching the older couple who lived in the house and knew they were almost always home. She also knew that their house wasn’t on their road, which gave her another sense of security. He wouldn’t see them if he were driving around.

Clark bolted back into the house. Charlotte grabbed her sons and ran as fast as she could for the wooded area. She snatched them up so fast she hardly had time to register what her body was doing. Somehow, she managed to run at lightning speed. The two boys together were not very light, but she was running on pure adrenaline. The wooded area became closer and closer. She ran faster, harder. She never looked back. Charlotte couldn’t look back. Terror drove her on.

When she finally reached the tree line she dropped back down to the ground with a thud. Both her boys were crying. She frantically tried to shush them. She knew he would hear them. Her eyes hysterically scanning the yard by the front door. Her younger son continued to wail. There was no way he wouldn’t hear them. Her worst fears were realized when she saw him barreling out of the house, shotgun in hand, shrieking obscenities and demanding for them to return.

Charlotte knew she had the upper hand. The gun worried her. She knew he would not hesitate to kill all three of them if she continued, but she also fully believed he would use it even if she didn’t. She scooped her sons up and began to stumble through the woods toward the boat while her husband gained ground. He had spotted them now, and he was storming after them. Charlotte was trembling so much that she could barely keep hold of her sons. The boys were inconsolable feeling their mother’s fear.

Charlotte turned to glance back. Clark was now just a few dozen steps behind them. He slowed down to fiddle with the shotgun, she presumed to make sure it was loaded. Instinct took over. All she could picture was the father of her children turning the shotgun on them in the woods, pulling the trigger, and killing them like they were nothing more than game. Charlotte tripped over a large rock, twisting her ankle. She cried out, dropping her sons again. Instinctively she reached for her ankle, her hand grazing the large rock. She wrapped her hands around it, pulling it to her chest. Clark realizing what happened, turned his attention from the gun to the helpless woman cowering a few feet from him.

Charlotte rolled over and buried her face into the ground. If she were about to be shot, at least she didn’t have to see it coming. Clark fell on her, put his hands around her neck, and began to choke her. She gasped, pleading with him, asking him to think of their children. He rolled her over. She took the rock in her hands and flung her hands upward. The rock connected with his chin with a glorious thunk. Shocked, Clark looked at her in the eyes in disbelief, then ever so slowly, slumped down.

Charlotte waited for death, wondering why he wasn’t moving. It took several minutes before she realized he was unconscious. Once the full realization of what she had accomplished hit her, she found her sons and moved toward the boat again. There it was. The journey to get to the edge of this tiny, half-thawed pond felt like a lifetime. A nightmare. Not real. She made it. They were going to be safe. Charlotte loaded the small, frightened boys into the boat and pushed it off. The water bit her feet and ankles painfully. She hopped into the boat and began to row with all her strength, her eyes never leaving the bank. Her heart held still in her chest when she saw her greatest fear plowing through to the bank. Thankfully, he did not seem to have the gun in hand.

Charlotte watched, paddling away as hard and fast as she could, while her husband of eight years began to wade, then swim out to her boat. She watched as the cold water took his breath away. She watched anger turn to fear as he realized how cold the water was. She watched him decide to pursue his small family instead of turning around. She watched his head bobbing, growing further and further away as she continued to paddle for her life. Finally, she watched his head bob for the last time, the cold having taken over, taking his life. Charlotte hit the bank of the other side of the small pond, closed her eyes as a feeling of safety washed over her.