by ilex

On almost every night of their decade-long marriage, Doug cleaned his guns, disassembling and scrubbing their metallic guts on the wood of their kitchen table. Sometimes, as she limped by to make herself something to eat, he’d remind her that no one would believe her if she talked. No matter how many times she punched 9-1-1 into her phone, no matter how many reports she filed and no matter how much evidence she brought with her to court, they would always, always take his side. “I’m a cop,” she remembers him telling her. “I’ll get away with it every time.”