You two always fell back into the same patterns. The arguments. The hitting, the screaming, the pushing. But even so, you both stayed. This time, you’re done.

You start to pack your bags up but he grabs your wrist.

“Baby, please. Next time, I swear. I’ll aim my fist at the dry wall.” he pleads

“Next time? There won’t be a next time.” You say, and his expression darkens as he grips your wrist tighter.

“If you try to fucking leave, I’ll tie you to the bed and set this house on fire.”