Disclaimer: I own nothing from The Walking Dead, comic series or television series.
Warning: This story includes violence and mention of spousal abuse.
Close Calls and Interventions
Chapter 1: 1st Life
Carol Peletier's hand shook as she sat against the bathroom door, legs curled under her as she heard his thundering footsteps in the next room. His alcohol-fueled rage had started in the kitchen, ended with her in the bathroom and send him reeling down the hallway, knocking happy-family pictures to the ground in broke frames.
She felt the blood trickle down her chest as she held her shaky hand against her neck. It was a minor cut that could have been so much worse, but she'd found the strength inside of her, and she'd fought back. For the first time in their twelve years of marriage, she'd fought back, and she'd found the strength to push him out the door. It had made him furious, murderous-angry, but she'd locked him out, and she knew he'd sleep it off and be better in the morning.
She stood, knees wobbling as she made her way to the sink, slippered feet sliding over broken shards of mirror. She rubbed the back of her head, where he'd slammed her into the mirror, breaking three-quarters of it before bending her painfully backward over the edge of the tub, hands around her throat, jagged mirror shared clenched tightly in his fists. It wasn't all her blood, she realized, looking down at her stained, white bathrobe.
Sophia had been staying the night with a friend. It was a Friday, after all. And that meant Ed had been at the bar with his buddies. They'd led him drink a little too much, and Carol knew those nights were the worst. They were when his breath was so strong with scotch that it made her eyes water when he got too close. They were the nights he'd toss her around like a sack of garbage, kicking and beating her like she was nothing.
Tonight was different. She'd been washing the counters after cooking his favorite meal. It was something she did on the nights she knew he'd be late and drunk. It was her way of trying to please him and curb the anger she knew he'd feel when he came home to her disapproving looks. She'd tried not to look disapproving, but she supposed it was something that came natural, something she couldn't change, because the harder she tried to look meek and passive, the more it seemed to piss him off. But never more than tonight.
He'd come home, and she hadn't heard him. She always made a point to listen for him, but tonight, she hadn't heard the door open. She supposed she'd been lost in thought, humming a tune she'd heard on the radio that had gotten stuck in her head. She hated when that happened.
He'd been furious when he'd caught her swaying to the music, and he'd grabbed her from behind, demanding to know why she was so happy, accusing her of being a whore and screwing around while he was making an honest god-damned living to put food on her table for her and their worthless daughter.
He'd dragged her up the narrow stairs, smacking her along the way, forcing her onto the floor to crawl to the bathroom like a dog. He'd kept a hand firmly on the back of her neck, holding her down, pushing her toward the bathtub. He'd pulled her to her feet, and she'd stumbled, angering him even more. Her world began to spin after he slammed her head into the mirror. The loud, clattering, crackling pops that filled the air were even more disorienting than the pain.
He'd shoved her down, bent her head over the back of the tub and pushed the piece of broken glass against her throat. Her eyes had widened, pouring into his as he clenched his jaw and threatened to end her life with just a tiny flick of his wrist. He could do it. She knew it. It was then that something had distracted him, perhaps a late-falling piece of glass from the shattered mirror, and in that moment something inside of her had risen and forced her to fight back. Her hands had grabbed his arms and pushed him off of her, something that was easier than she'd expected. When he was drunk, his hands were like concrete blocks on her, heavy and hard and unyielding.
She'd screamed at him, and he'd stumbled backward just enough that she could get him out of the door, and then she'd locked him out, collapsing into a heap on the floor, feeling the blood trickling down her chest. She'd survive. She knew she would. She would survive him until she couldn't anymore.
Now, as she looked the remaining, fractured part of the mirror, the distorted image showed her soul, broken and bleeding and breaking out of herself to find a way to live. Live with him. Live with this life. It was all she had.