FicWad

Chapter One
(Esther's Point of View)
He was drunk. Again. I can't believe I married him. I can't believe that Mama and Papa thought he was a "lovely, charming gentleman." That was about as far from the truth as it got. The truth was that Johnny was a mean, nasty drunk who had no respect for me. The fact that he wanted a child and I seemed to have trouble getting pregnant only made matters worse. I was pregnant, a few years ago, and Johnny, who wasn't an alcoholic then, was absolutely thrilled at the prospect of being a father. The baby was a miscarriage, and we were both heartbroken. After months and months of grief, I was finally able to cope with what happened, but he wasn't. That's when Johnny started drinking. At first, it was only a couple of drinks at the local bar once or twice a week, after he'd gotten off of work. Soon, it was every night, but still only a few drinks. Then, it got to where he would come home on those nights slurring his words and barely being able to stand. Not long after, he started buying his own alcohol to drink at home, where he'd get even more drunk. And not long after that, he took to beating me.
The first few times were the worst, yet at the same time, they weren't as bad as the others. He hurt me a lot worse at first than he does now, but the next day, he'd come home with flowers for me, saying how terribly sorry he was, and that he would never do it again. And each time, I believed him. His drinking got worse when he lost his job, but surprisingly, the beatings came less frequently.
This was the last straw. I was going to leave, whether Johnny liked it or not, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could beat you to death, I thought, but I quickly pushed that idea to the back of my mind. While he wasn't looking, I went into our bedroom, pulled my two suitcases out from underneath our bed, and started packing my things as quietly as possible. I stuffed in as much clothing as I could, only bothering to fold my nice Sunday dresses. At the very back of the closet, where Johnny wouldn't find it, was the stash of money I kept. Our local bank didn't let women have their own checking or savings accounts, so I kept track of the money myself. I'd been saving it since I was a little girl, when I had this dream of traveling all over the world and having great adventures. So much for that notion. I had no clue how much money was there, but it had to be at least enough to get me far enough from this town that Johnny wouldn't find me. I grabbed it, and with a bit of difficulty, shoved the two jars into one of the suitcases. When I thought that I had everything that I needed, I closed the suitcases and quietly exited the bedroom. What I didn't expect was for Johnny to be standing right in front of me.
"And where do you think you're going?" he slurred. "N-nowhere." I told him, terrified. "Then why do you have those suitcases?" I stood up straight, putting emphasis on the fact that I was a good three inches taller than he was, and said, "I'm leaving you." Then I bent down slightly to pick up the suitcases, which I'd dropped on the floor. As I did so, I felt the sharp sting of pain in my face that could only come from him slapping me. Once again, I stood up straight, and this time, I slapped him right back. He stumbled backwards a bit, and I could tell that I'd managed to hurt him. "YOU BITCH!" he yelled at me, and in a second, he had me pinned against the wall. If I was terrified before, words wouldn't be able to describe what I was feeling now.
"Johnny, please don't-" But he cut me off by hitting me again, this time harder. "Now, you listen to me, Esther. You ain't going anywhere, do you hear me?" I nodded. "Yes, I understand." I said, now crying. "Good." he said, looking at me with the most vile, venomous smile I'd ever seen.
In that moment, seeing that smile, I was fueled by pure hatred. It filled me up and flowed out of my eyes, ears, mouth, and every single pore that I had. I picked up the heavier of the two suitcases and swung it at Johnny's head as hard as I could. It struck him, and he fell to the floor.
Setting the suitcase down again, I calmly went into our bathroom to see if Johnny had left any marks when he slapped me. Sure enough, there was a bright red mark on my face. It was rather large. I put on some concealer in hopes of hiding it, and by the time I was done, you could barely see it. While I was at it, I dug out the blood red lipstick that I hadn't worn in years because Johnny thought that it made me look a whore, and applied it liberally.
When I was finished putting on makeup, I left the bathroom and found him, still unconscious on the floor. There was a bruise on his forehead where I had hit him. Thinking that I had better check on him, just to make sure he's alright, I pressed my fingers lightly to his pulse, and to my shock, felt nothing. I tried his pulse again, and still felt nothing, so I unbuttoned his shirt and put my ear to his chest. There was no heartbeat.
Johnny was dead, and I had killed him.