Hank's Monster

Warning: mentions of domestic abuse and the death of a loved one.

Jagged pieces of color lay on the kitchen floor -- a plate from a dinner set gifted by his parents on our wedding day and drops of my blood. I can feel Hank clutching me close to him like a child with their raggedy toy, ready to lash out at any one who tries to take it from them. He keeps repeating a tearful mantra in my ears, sounding desperate for me to hear them.

I don't. Not really.

I once read about a woman's experience after a bomb went off near her. She was in a daze. Her body was there, but her mind wasn't. She went in and out, overwhelmed, but still trying to process. The woman knew she must have been in pain, but she couldn't feel it until the fog lifted.

My fog hasn't lifted yet and I don't know if I want it to. It's easier to think the past minute didn't happen for now, to be stuck in this betwixt where the bomb has exploded, but I can't feel anything yet.

It's either this or allow the memory to start over in my head. It's how I've always processed the bad things, replaying them over and over, hoping it was nothing more than a nightmare.

Unlike a nightmare though, I can't wake up, no matter how much I want to.

"I want a call as soon as those DNA results come in." Hank shoves his dinner dishes in my hand, nearly making me drop them. Part of me wants to ask he be gentle, the plate is part of a priceless set, a heirloom of sorts I hope to pass to our children someday. In fact, I only take them out on our anniversary. But if five years of loving Hank have taught me anything, it is to shallow the words and focus on washing the dishes right now.

This must be a bad case. Hank gets like this when the case is bad. Though, they've all been bad cases in the past ten or so months since he made detective. I shouldn't really expect anything less though; we do live in Chicago.

I wish he would just talk to me.

Hank never has been one to talk about work, even when we were dating. Doesn't want to burden me with "the worst of Chicago," he calls it.

He forgets I've already been burdened by some of the worst Chicago has to offer. My sudsy covered hand wraps around the locket around my neck, my reminder of the day mom died. She didn't have to die. If only I hadn't forgot to stop by the store that day.

The thump of Hank's phone hitting the counter brings me back to the present.

"Everything okay?"

"I'm fine. Don't worry about it." He glares at me with a look commanding me to drop it, a direct contradiction to his gentle tone.

I grab a towel to dry my hands before picking up a plate. "I understand you can't talk about ongoing cases," my hand goes to rest of my obviously exhausted husband's shoulder, "but if there's anything..."

The bomb hits before I finish, happening so quickly I don't grasp what happened until I feel pain radiating on the right side of my face. My feet hurt too; I think I dropped the plate on them. I don't remember hearing it hit the floor though.

I should yell, run, something. But Hank's face shuts everything down, leaving me frozen in place.

For a second, I see a monster like the ones who killed Mom. Hungry for someone's misery and pain, joyful when innocent prey lay dead at their feet. As quick as I see it, it disappears, replaced with a shocked and guilt-ridden Hank who reaches out to comfort me.

The fog is starting to lift just enough to know I'm going to do everything I can to ensure Hank's monster doesn't come out again. It'll make it easier to believe it and that minute doesn't exist anymore.

"I forgive you, Hank. I'm sorry," comes out of my mouth before I even think about it. Because, what else can I say to calm the monster?