Chapter 2: Life After the Fall

With what was left, we opened a tiny Southern snack shop. I wore an ankle monitor from my suspended sentence—never truly free.

It was a shoebox on a quiet street, yellow walls, a counter always smelling of Cajun spice. The monitor bit at my skin, a constant reminder. Every customer, I wondered if they noticed the bulge under my jeans or heard the gossip. But Natalie kept us going, pouring coffee and serving gumbo, turning strangers into regulars.

Natalie never left. She’d tease me, say my hush puppies beat any chef’s. Every time I sold a bowl of gumbo with the monitor strapped to my ankle, she’d beam: “Babe, you’re amazing—we just made five bucks.”

She’d wink from the register, pride shining in her eyes. Even on the worst days, with bills stacked high and my ankle aching, she’d laugh and say the hardship made my food better. Sometimes she’d tuck a sticky note in my apron: "Don’t forget, you’re my hero."

But the nightmare wasn’t done.

Even in daylight, the shadows followed us. Natalie would check the lock twice, her hands trembling when the bell above the door chimed at closing.

One day, he came back.

It was just a Tuesday—quiet, desperate for enough sales to cover rent. He swaggered in, slumping on the counter, sneer twisting his face. My heart froze; I could smell the whiskey before he even spoke.

Even in our tiny shop, he showed up as a customer.

He made a show of reading the faded menu, eyes never leaving mine. The other customers tensed. Natalie’s hands paused over the register, lips thin. In a place as small as ours, there’s nowhere to hide.

He caught my eye and snapped, “What are you looking at? Want to lose another house to me?”

He grinned, yellow teeth bared. Old wounds throbbed in my jaw. My fists clamped the counter, knuckles white. I forced myself still, voice flat, for Natalie’s sake.

I swallowed my anger.

It bubbled up, but I pressed it down hard. My probation officer’s warning rang in my head: "One more slip, and you’re done." I stared at the salt shakers and the old Ohio State schedule taped to the wall. This was a test I couldn’t fail.

I can’t touch him.

The courtroom, the gavel, the ankle monitor—all of it flashed through my mind. The law didn’t care about pain, only control. I kept my hands in plain sight.

I’m still on probation, and Natalie’s pregnant.

Every morning, she’d press my hand to her belly, let me feel the baby kick—our second chance. I promised her, and the little one, I’d keep us safe. That promise weighed more than any chain.

If I get into a fight, I’ll go straight to jail.

One punch, and I’d be gone for years. Natalie alone, raising our child while men like him walked free. I gritted my teeth and remembered what was at stake.

We’d crossed paths before, but kept our distance.

He’d turn up at bars, the post office, the Dollar General on Dorr Street. We’d lock eyes, tense, then walk away, pretending nothing happened. But it simmered beneath the surface.

But today, he was drunk again. He ordered gumbo and told us to remember the hot sauce.

His words slurred, banging his good hand on the counter. Natalie jotted the order, pen trembling. I watched him, blood boiling, face blank.

When Natalie handed him the takeout, he suddenly shouted, “I told you to add hot sauce—are you deaf?”

His voice bounced off the walls, making a couple at the window booth flinch. Natalie’s hands shook, eyes darting to mine, begging for help I couldn’t give.

She stammered, “I did add it, you just didn’t see. If you don’t believe me, smell it.”

She tried to stay calm, but her voice wobbled. The fear in her eyes cut through me. She stood her ground, refusing to back down.

I’d seen her add the hot sauce just like he asked, but he’d been too busy scrolling through his phone to notice.

He hunched over his phone, ignoring Natalie as she worked. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was clench my jaw and grip the prep table.

Natalie opened the lid for him to smell. Suddenly, he shoved her and the hot gumbo splashed all over her. He cursed, “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you stupid or just blind?”

The gumbo splattered her shirt and swollen belly, steam curling up. Natalie shrieked, dropping the container. The smell of spice and the hiss of hot liquid filled the shop. He loomed over her, sneering, words full of venom.

Natalie yanked up her shirt, desperate for relief, and ran to the sink to douse herself with cold water.

She didn’t care who saw—she just needed to cool the burn. Her hands shook as she let the water run, splashing on her bare skin. Angry red marks bloomed across her belly. My heart twisted, watching her shiver and gasp, still trying to stay strong.

I grabbed the meat cleaver, ready to charge out, but my mom—working the register—caught me. She ran to the kitchen, locked the door, and blocked my way.

The lock clattered in the cramped kitchen. My mom, hair in a no-nonsense bun, pressed her weight against the swinging door, eyes wild with fear. Through the pass window, she hissed, “Don’t you dare, son. Not again. We can’t lose you. He’s just here to mess with you—don’t give him the chance.”

Tears prickled in her eyes as she grabbed my wrist, knuckles white. “He wants you to snap. Think of your family now. He’s baiting you, can’t you see?” Her words rattled against my anger, begging me to hold on.

Natalie saw what I was about to do. Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile. “Babe, I’m fine, it didn’t burn me.”

Her voice was gentle, a fragile shield over the pain. She tried to stand tall, brushing a lock of hair from her face, but her hands shook and her lips trembled. “It’s nothing, really,” she whispered, forcing a laugh, but her eyes never left mine.

But I saw her belly turning red, and she could only keep rinsing it with cold water.

The skin was angry and raw, the edges already blistering. The sour, acrid smell of burned flesh filled the air. Natalie kept at the faucet, teeth clenched. The silence in the shop was suffocating.

Even through her pain, she squeezed my hand through the pass window. “Don’t let him win, babe. We need you here.” The love in her voice broke me.

I glared at the drunk—same wasted, arrogant look as always.

He lounged at the counter, eyes glazed but mean, a bottle of cheap whiskey poking from his pocket. He smirked, daring me to come at him.

He waved his bad hand, fingers curled and useless. “You’re making me sick just looking at you.” The room reeked of alcohol and something fouler. I clenched my jaw till it hurt.

Natalie kept rinsing her belly, eight months pregnant, due next month—how could she stand this?

Her breaths were short, face ghostly pale. Still, she stood tall, trying to shield the baby. I watched, helpless and furious, as she endured more than anyone should.

She sobbed, “I really did add it. There’s a camera here—if you don’t believe me, check the footage.”

Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper, but there was steel in it. She pointed at the old dome camera, desperate for justice. “Please, just watch the tape if you don’t believe me.”

The drunk slammed the counter, making utensils jump. “Still talking back, huh?”

His anger grew, feeding off the attention. He glared at Natalie, voice rising, echoing off the cheap tile.

He stormed behind the counter and shoved Natalie hard.

The bell jangled as he barreled past, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her. Natalie stumbled, catching herself on the sink, tears streaming. The other customers turned away, pretending not to see.

She almost fell. My mom caught her and shouted, “Why are you still hitting people? We don’t want your business!”

Mom wrapped her arm around Natalie, pulling her upright. Her voice was sharp, righteous. "We don’t need your kind here—get out!"

He just got angrier. “I already paid! Make me another bowl, right now!”

He slapped a wad of bills on the counter, spit flying. He wanted to show everyone he was in charge, that money made him untouchable.

I slapped the pass window with the knife and pointed at him.

The blade rang out, every eye in the room on us. I stared him down, letting him know I remembered every bruise, every humiliation. The whole room held its breath.

Men like him—bullies—are everywhere.

They crawl out of every bar, gas station, football game. Always tough with the weak, never with someone who’ll fight back. They never Venmo strangers or pick fights with bikers after a few drinks.

They claim to be drunk, but they always pick on the vulnerable. They know exactly what they’re doing.

Getting drunk is just an excuse to show their true colors. They blame the bottle, not their own rotten hearts.

Seeing me pick up the cleaver, the drunk’s bravado slipped. He looked at the door, calculating. His fear flickered in his eyes.

But seeing the kitchen door locked by my mom, he stayed and sneered, “Hiding in the kitchen to scare me? If you’ve got guts, come out!”

He banged the counter, trying to bait me. I said nothing—just gripped the cleaver, breathing deep, letting silence do the talking.

He taunted, “What, waving a knife but too scared to say a word? Oh, right—you don’t have a tongue. I broke it.”

He cackled, holding up his twisted hand like a trophy. He pulled up his sleeve, showing the deep scar on his wrist. He waggled his limp fingers at the customers.

He said, “Same for me—my hand was chopped off by you. They reattached it, but the fingers are useless. No company wants me.”

He looked around, fishing for sympathy, but got nothing.

I pointed at the lock, silently daring him: If you’ve got guts, open it and come in.

Natalie, shivering, pleaded softly, “Don’t be angry. Getting mad after drinking is bad for your health. Please, calm down.”

Her belly moved—cooled by the water, the baby kicked hard. Natalie winced, stroking her belly, whispering to our child.

Suddenly, the drunk gagged and vomited on the shop floor.

The stench hit, sharp and sour. Customers recoiled, disgusted. He wiped his mouth, smearing spit and bile, and pointed at Natalie’s belly. “That’s disgusting! Can you put your belly away? There’s even hair on it. It’s making me sick.”

My mom snapped, “It’s normal for pregnant women to have hair on their bellies!”

The drunk sneered, “Stop talking about getting angry after drinking. It’s seeing your ugly belly that’s making me sick.”

Natalie hurriedly covered her belly, pleading, “I’ll refund your money and give you a free bowl, okay? Babe, make another one. I’ll go change clothes.”

She reached for a towel, pressing it to her skin, motioning for me to start another order. She covered her belly and started toward the storeroom, but he grabbed her hair and yanked her back.

Natalie gasped, stumbling as he jerked her to a stop. Her hands flew to her scalp, trying to break his grip.

He shrieked, “Why do you want to treat me? You think I can’t afford a bowl of your gumbo?”

He let go just long enough to slam his wallet on the counter, contents spilling everywhere. Natalie quickly said, “I didn’t mean that.”

Her eyes were wide, hands raised in surrender.

But his pride was wounded. He slapped two hundred dollars in her face and yelled, “What, you think I’m some broke loser? Here’s your damn money.”

He pressed the bills to her cheek, crumpling them. The insult hung heavy. He wanted to show he was still in control.

My hand trembled on the knife handle, rage burning in my chest.

Natalie sobbed, “No, it’s my honor to treat you. Please, just give me a break.”

Her tears splashed on the counter. She bowed her head in a last-ditch plea. The shop was dead silent.

He spat, “With a belly that size, you still call yourself ‘girl’? You’re already an old woman about to give birth. Tell me, do you think I’m so pathetic with just one working arm, no job, and so down and out I can’t even afford a bowl of gumbo? Do I need your pity?”

He leaned in, face inches from hers. It was never about the gumbo—it was about breaking someone else.

Natalie whispered, “I really didn’t mean that.”

“If not, then kneel down and apologize!”

He roared, grabbed her shoulders, and forced her to her knees.

Her legs buckled, knees hitting the tile with a dull thud. The humiliation was worse than the pain—her hands shook, tears streaming.

She couldn’t withstand his strength. Her knees hit the floor, and she cried out.

He grabbed her hair, yanking her head up. “Why do you think you’re so special? I just touched you once, and you all ruined my life.”

He got angrier, pressing his useless hand against her chest. As she screamed, he groped her, glaring at me. “Come on! Chop my hand off again!”

I slammed my fist into the door, rattling the whole frame. My rage was a living thing, clawing at my insides.

I kicked the door hard, leaving a dent. I could hear Natalie’s sobs, my mother’s shouts, the customers’ stunned silence. I felt trapped.

The door rattled, but the lock held firm. I pressed my forehead to the door, jaw throbbing.

Natalie looked at me, pleading—not for rescue, but begging me not to throw everything away.

Her gaze said: “Don’t do it. Don’t throw away our future.” Even through the pain, she tried to protect me from myself.

The drunk edged toward the exit, ready to bolt if I broke through—just like before.

As long as I got out, he’d run. He wanted drama, but not consequences. I wouldn’t even need to hit him—just chasing him out with the knife would send me to jail.

In his eyes, I was a mad dog, my probation my chain, the judge my master.

My mom was frantic, grabbing her phone. “I’m calling the cops!”

She waved her phone, thumb over 9-1-1, voice shaking. She tried to shield Natalie, hands trembling.

He laughed. “Go ahead, call them! Your son already ruined me—I can’t get a job or a wife. What’s a few days in the tank? I’ll be back.”

He was right. In America, right and wrong blur when money and privilege run the show. He knew the loopholes.

Groping a woman’s chest isn’t a felony here. If you don’t care about your future, you get a slap on the wrist—a few days in jail, not a record.

Even if the gumbo burned Natalie, he could call it an accident.

But for me, it was different.

If I so much as raised my voice, I’d be arrested. The rules are always stricter for men like me.

He groped my wife, forced her to kneel. If I so much as slapped him, I’d go to jail.