Chapter 3: The Stand
He lunged.
Sarah swung the heavy brass lamp with every ounce of strength in her body. The metal connected squarely with David’s shoulder with a sickening crunch. He roared in pain, stumbling back, but his forward momentum carried him into her.
They crashed onto the floor. The brass lamp clattered away, spinning under the bed. David’s heavy hands found her throat, his thumbs pressing into her windpipe.
"You should have just opened the door," he hissed, spittle flying onto her face.
Black spots danced in Sarah’s vision. She thrashed, her fingernails clawing at his face, tearing the skin around his eyes. He didn't let go. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs screamed for oxygen.
Lily. The thought of her daughter cowering in the bathtub pierced through the fading consciousness.
Sarah stopped clawing. She dropped her right hand, feeling blindly along the floorboards until her fingers brushed against the sharp, jagged edge of a shattered door hinge that had been ripped from the frame.
She gripped the cold metal. With a final, desperate surge of energy, she drove the jagged metal piece straight up into David’s ribs.
He shrieked, his grip instantly releasing. He rolled off her, clutching his side. Sarah didn't hesitate. She scrambled to her feet, gasping for air, her throat burning. She didn't look for the lamp. She didn't pause to think. She raised her foot and brought her heel down squarely onto David’s face.
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His head snapped back against the floorboards. The sickening sound of his nose breaking echoed in the room—a brutal, poetic mirror of what he had done to his own daughter. His eyes rolled back, and he went entirely limp.
Sarah stumbled back, her chest heaving, staring at the unconscious man on the floor.
