That Day

It was approximately 4 pm on a random Saturday afternoon. We had the same conversation that we had been having every single day for the last several months – the conversation about money, marriage, divorce, separation, his medications, the kids, the business, and the stability (or lack thereof) in our household. Exasperated from once again rehashing the same topics without resolution, I went into the kitchen to fix Jason, Hunter, and Katherine a late-afternoon snack. I remember him following me out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. I remember him on the phone, calling people. No one seemed to answer his calls, so he would dial another number. This went on for several minutes and wasn’t terribly unusual behavior.

Eventually, I remember him leaving the kitchen area, not quite certain of where he went. When he came back into the kitchen, he said there was one more thing he wanted to discuss with me – but not in front of the children - and he went to our bedroom. I followed him down the hallway. When we got to the bedroom, he turned to face me, and I remember an unusual bulge in the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. I asked what was in his pocket, and then I instantly knew that he had a gun. He pulled it out, and I panicked. I remember a scuffle. I remember him grabbing me by my sweater and pushing me back into the depths of our walk-in closet. Somewhere in the chaos, my cell phone got away from me, and I was now truly helpless. I remember him saying, “This is all going to end now.“ I remember my high-pitched screams, sounds that I didn’t know I was capable of making.

He pointed the gun down, towards my lower torso. I remember trying to shield myself from one of the closet doors. He fired. The sound was deafening, and the smell of the heat and gunpowder was sickening. I had been hit in the left foot and remember yelling in shock and bewilderment, “Oh My God, You Just Fucking Shot Me.”

Another shot immediately followed, and I fell flat to the floor face down. I went down so fast that I didn’t even realize that I had been hit by another bullet until after I lay on the floor for a few seconds. Later I would learn that this bullet was nearly fatal as it traveled through my right thigh, severing my femur and grazing my femoral artery.

Finally, a third bullet hit my right butt cheek and went all the way through my groin. Really, and why? In all the time that I’ve had to reflect on everything that happened that day, I’ve come to refer to this as simply the “Fuck You Shot.”

I continued to lie still on the floor face down, in shock and disbelief. I couldn’t see what he was doing, and I was terrified. I remember hearing the sound of him cocking the gun, and I remember praying. I had no idea what would come next and was afraid that I would be shot yet again.

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard another shot, and he fell to the floor next to me. He fell with his leg bent, the gun landing underneath him. God spared me from the gruesomeness of his face, with his bent knee shielding me from the carnage. Soon thereafter, I heard him gurgle and die.