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Ninety-seven

I don't know how long I stood there for, watching my husband bleed to death.

Why couldn't I do anything? Was this what I inwardly wanted? Was his wickedness so bad that I actually wanted him gone?

Of course not. I had reached a point where no matter what he did to me or no matter what I found out about him, I couldn't bring myself to hurt him on purpose. Maybe he had lied to me and tried to hurt me, but seeing him in this position only made me feel worse than I had felt when I read the contract my father gave me.

Slowly, the blood returned to my face and I could move my body. I crouched down to his level and touched him. I didn't know what I was supposed to do at this point. I never learned CPR and I didn't know what to do when someone was in this position. His head was still bleeding and the gash that had been caused by the glass plate breaking on his head was really deep.

“Davis, I'm sorry,” I whispered, even though I knew he couldn't hear me.

I couldn't believe I had done this
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