Not a Blueprint: It's the Shoe Prints That Matter

Little did he know that his voice was the last thing I wanted to hear. When I got mad, I was nothing nice.  Struck by anger, I turned, picked up the lamp, and threw it at him. He ducked, jumped up from the table, and followed me into the kitchen. That was another big mistake. I looked at the chicken frying over a sizzling hot flame, quickly grabbed the cast-iron skillet, and threw it at him. When he saw his food flying across the room he ducked, and it landed smack against the white walls. As tears flowed down my face, I told him about my conversation with his mistress. What happened afterward was similar to the famous Al Green melodrama—but without the grits. Or possibly it was a moment from the Diary of a Mad Black Woman, with me portraying Helen McCarter’s character. Regardless of the scene, it became one of those mirthless evenings, particularly for Craig. (Once more: You may want to open your imagination for what followed—think what you’d have said or done.)

“I dare you to close one eye!” I screamed. “If you want to see tomorrow, it wouldn’t be wise.”

I paced from the living room to the bedroom with a knife in each hand, waiting for his mistress to appear at our door. All through the night, I stared at the door, hoping she’d come. Each time I crept into the bedroom, Craig
sprung up like a spring.

He yelled, “I ain’t asleep!”

No doubt Craig thought he was about to draw his last breath. That whole event was completely mind-boggling. A rush of electrifying combat adrenaline had taken over. It felt like one of those out-of-body experiences. To have had discovered this level of anger inside me was beyond frightening. Having the capacity to kill in the spur of the moment scared me out of my wits. Recognizing this toxic, killer emotion in me and knowing that someone had pushed me to that degree was a rude awakening.

That awareness made me realize the full volatility of our toxic relationship. Remorseful, embarrassed, and ashamed of my actions, my self-esteem had been diminished. It made me feel sick to stoop so low as to want to kill a human being.

To add fuel to the fire, Craig hit me with the news that he was still . . .