This was the last straw. She couldn't understand why he kept doing it, regardless of the arguments and discussions that they had. There was evidence everywhere. It was like her husband was a different person than she had married. It was infuriating and almost insulting.

He was at the kitchen table, holding a glass of whiskey with the bottle in the other hand. She frowned as she closed the front door. She knew exactly why he was drinking. He had lost another job, his fifth one this year. Placing her purse and coat on the coat hanger, she walked into the kitchen.

"What do you want?" her husband grumbled.

"What's the occasion?" she whispered, holding up an empty champagne bottle. They were saving it for their third anniversary. 

"I bet you can guess," he hissed, throwing back the glass. She waited, placing the bottle on the counter. He sighed. "I lost my job today. Went to the bar, got drunk, crashed the car again. Came home. Drank. You came home."

"What's the condition of the car?" she groaned. He had totaled her car a few weeks ago, so they were sharing his. She had to take the bus that morning to get to work.

"Totaled. I hit a tree and the engine was smashed in on itself," he slurred. She couldn't even hear a hint of regret in his voice.

"What happened at work?"

"Got fired for being late again. I woke up late, and they told me to go home when I arrived," he explained. She pinched the bridge of her nose. There was no way that she could pay the rent by herself, and by this rate they were going to be out on the street. "How was your day?"

"How was my day?" she laughed. He frowned, his eyelids dropping. "My husband seems to be trying to make my life a living hell. You told me that you would stop drinking. You said that you would hold down a job for longer than three months. I thought we were supposed to be working this out, but I'm the only one holding my part of the deal."

"I held that job for three months."

"I need a better commitment than that!" she shouted. "I can't take this anymore. I work my ass off everyday to put food on the table and keep this roof over our head. Apparently I also work to keep a shot of whiskey in your hand at all times."

"Sweetheart-"

"No! I'm done!" she yelled, gripping the counter and looking down at the floor. Rage and disappointment filled her thoughts and mind. "I can't do this anymore."

"Are you going to leave me?" he whispered. He sounded fearful and worried. "You can't leave me."

"Oh, can't I? Why would I? Because I have it so good here? Because my marriage is perfect? Because my husband works with me instead of letting me down?" she asked. Her voice was filled with laughter and malice. He glared as he stood up.

"You can't leave me," he repeated darkly. She slid in front of the empty champagne bottle as he walked toward her. This wasn't the first time that he had threatened her. 

As he stood in front of her, she grabbed the bottle and held it above her head with two hands. With one swift movement, she brought it down hard on his head, shards of glass scattering across the kitchen floor. Her husband cried out in anger and pain as she reached into a kitchen drawer.

"What the hell?" he shouted, noting the blood on his head. She brandished a knife, taking a step back. "What are you doing?"

"I'm taking care of myself. I'm going to grab my things and I am going to my mother's," she informed sternly, holding the knife in front of her. Panic welled in his eyes.

"So you're going to abandon your husband just like that? Don't you love me anymore?" he asked quickly. She glared. "Now put that knife down and let's talk this through."

"Talk about what? The same stuff we always talk about? How you'll do better and get your life on track, then go back to doing what you've always been doing? You'll never change, and it's about time I realized that."

"You're making a mistake," he insisted. She shook her head firmly.

In the moment of silence, he leaped towards her, reaching for the knife. She dodged and ran to the living room, the blade still in her hand. He scrambled to his feet and followed, grabbing at her. 

She made it to the living room when he yanked her ankle. She fell on her knees as he pinned her down. Glaring, she kicked him hard between the legs and got out from beneath him. She aimed the knife and stabbed him in the back. He yelped and turned away from her.

She lunged forward and plunged the knife into his chest as he started to stand up. He screamed in fright as he saw the hilt of the blade protruding from his torso. He coughed, trying to stay upright with his hand to the wall. However, his hand slipped, leaving a bloody hand print on the wall.  As he laid on the floor, he slowly pulled it out, covering the bleeding wound with his hand.

The knife fell to the ground with a clatter and she stood above him, watching the blood pool on the floor beneath him. Carefully, she stepped over the blood and saw as her late husband lay still, unblinking.

She tiptoed over to the couch and laid down, her clothes and arms covered in blood. She took a deep breath and smiled, finally able to relax.