Chapter 3: Breaking Point

Suddenly, Natalie collapsed.

Her body crumpled, hands gripping her belly. The shop went silent as she gasped for breath, face twisted in agony.

She clutched her belly, body convulsing.

Her fingers dug into her skin, knuckles white. Sweat poured down her face.

My mom panicked, rushing to her side. “What’s wrong?”

Mom knelt, trying to help Natalie sit up. “Talk to me, honey—what’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

Natalie’s face was ghostly pale, lips colorless, gripping my mom’s arm. “My...my belly...”

Her eyes rolled back, grip tightening, nails digging in.

I kicked the door desperately. My mom fumbled for her phone to call 911, but the drunk snatched it away. “What are you doing?”

He lunged, grabbing the phone. My mom recoiled, fear and fury on her face.

She pleaded, “Sir, I know you have a grudge against my son, but my daughter-in-law needs a hospital right now. Please, don’t make trouble—she’s pregnant!”

Tears streamed down her face. “You can hate us, but please—help us. Don’t let her lose the baby.”

He shrugged, indifferent. “It’s not my kid—what’s it got to do with me?”

He tossed the phone on the counter, smirking. His indifference was chilling.

I kicked the door again and again, but the lock wouldn’t budge.

My foot throbbed. I screamed Natalie’s name, voice ragged. The door wouldn’t move.

The drunk grinned. “You want to take your wife to the hospital? Fine, I already paid—make me another bowl of gumbo and I’ll let her go.”

His grin was monstrous. My rage threatened to tear me apart.

I roared, but my words were garbled.

My tongue still didn’t work right, the old injury burning. He laughed, delighted.

Natalie, shaking, struggled to her feet. “Babe, make it for him.”

She pointed to her belly, tears streaming. “Please, just do it—for the baby.”

Even in agony, she put our child first. Her strength steadied me. I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow, forcing my hands to steady.

Grinding my teeth, I threw gumbo into the pot. Natalie sat clutching her belly, sweat pouring down her face.

The drunk grinned. “See? I’m not unreasonable. Once I get my gumbo, we’re even. Remember the hot sauce this time.”

He leaned on the counter, mocking. My mom quickly sprinkled hot sauce in front of him. “Are you satisfied now?”

She moved with trembling hands, dousing the gumbo. The whole shop watched, silent.

He nodded, then pointed at me. “Throw out all the kitchen knives, and I’ll let you out to take her to the hospital.”

He wanted control, to strip us of any power. I nodded, hating myself, and gathered every blade in the kitchen.

Swallowing my fury, I put every kitchen knife on the counter.

The knives clattered, my hands shaking. He looked at my mom. “Aren’t you going to bring them over?”

My mom scooped up the knives in her apron, hurrying. “Can my daughter-in-law go to the hospital now?”

She knelt, hands outstretched. Her voice cracked, but she held firm.

He picked up a spoonful of gumbo, blew on it, stuffed it in his mouth. “Open the door.”

He slurped the gumbo, lips smacking. My mom fumbled with the lock, hands shaking.

He gathered the knives, walked to the door, opened the storm drain, and tossed them in.

The blades clattered into the darkness. He grinned, certain we were helpless now.

My mom rushed to unlock the door. I was about to carry Natalie out, but he returned.

She flung the door open, hope in her eyes, but he blocked the way, face twisted with glee.

Chewing gumbo, he muttered, “Too much hot sauce. You try it yourself.”

He fixed his gaze on Natalie. She tried to pull away, but he was too strong. He clamped his hand around her jaw, forcing her lips apart. Her eyes were wide with terror.

He forced her mouth open, and the humiliation was so raw, so total, it made my skin crawl.

The room went dead silent. The horror of it was worse than any blow—worse than the night he’d first hurt her. Natalie gagged, tears streaming down her face, her whole body wracked with revulsion.

He pressed his palm over her mouth and nose, forcing her to swallow. Natalie’s eyes rolled back, her body convulsing. The humiliation was absolute.

She struggled, hands clawing at his wrist, breath coming in desperate, choked gasps. The customers recoiled, frozen in place.

Tormented, she had no choice but to swallow. Her body shuddered, face twisted in agony. I felt my own stomach lurch, bile rising in my throat.

Already unwell, she vomited violently, her belly convulsing.

She doubled over, clutching her stomach, retching onto the floor. My mom rushed to her side, hands shaking.

The drunk just laughed, walked up to me, and spread his hands. “If you’re upset, hit me. But I’ll tell you, my family knows I’m here—they’ll call the cops if anything happens.”

My nails dug into my palms, drawing blood. The urge to fight was overwhelming, but I forced myself to stand still, to focus on Natalie and our baby.

But Natalie clung to my arm, weak but determined. She pressed her face into my sleeve, tears soaking the fabric. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t let him win.”

She whispered, “Don’t... You’re about to be a father. Don’t be impulsive... do it for me, for the baby...”

Her words reached me. I nodded, swallowing the rage, forcing myself to think of the future.

The drunk grinned. “Yeah, I remember—you got two years, one suspended. Listen to your wife, don’t be impulsive, or if you go in...”

He leaned in close, breath sour and hot. “If you go to jail, I’ll have someone mess with your wife. Guess what I mean by ‘mess with your wife’?”

His words twisted the knife. My vision blurred with rage, but I forced myself to hold back.

He wasn’t done. “Of course, even if you don’t hit me, I’ll come back every day.”

He leaned against the door, arms crossed, a sneer on his lips.

Natalie sobbed, “Can’t you just leave us alone? You were the one in the wrong at first.”

Her voice was small, but full of righteous anger.

He sneered, “I admit I was wrong. But when I apologized and offered to pay, your husband still chopped off my hand. My fingers are ruined, you ruined my life—so I won’t let you have it easy either.”

He spread his mangled fingers, daring anyone to argue.

I picked up Natalie and carried her out.

I cradled her gently, careful of her belly. My mom held the door, eyes full of worry and hope.

She was right. We couldn’t fight him now. I was about to become a father—I couldn’t go to jail. I had to take care of my wife and child.

Every step toward the door was a victory—a choice for life, for hope. The world outside was cold and gray, but better than the darkness inside. I made a silent promise: I would do whatever it took to protect my family.

Suddenly, Natalie screamed.

Her body arched in my arms, agony ripping from her throat. The world spun beneath my feet. I nearly dropped her, heart pounding.

As I carried her, the drunk bent down and licked her calf.

He knelt, tongue sliding over her skin, eyes locked on mine. The sight was obscene. Natalie writhed in my grip, sobs turning to screams.

He met my gaze, stuck out his tongue, licked his lips, and sneered, “Women all like being licked. You don’t have a tongue, so I’ll lick your wife for you.”

His voice was mocking. He wanted to push me over the edge. I felt rage rise, stronger than ever.

Every fiber of me screamed to lash out. But Natalie’s pain anchored me to reality.

But I knew this was not the time. Natalie was in danger—one wrong move and it would be a double tragedy.

I forced myself to breathe, to focus on getting her to safety. Vengeance could wait.

No matter how furious I was, nothing was more important than my wife’s safety.

The world could burn, the law could fail us, but as long as Natalie and our baby were safe, nothing else mattered. I turned away from the monster behind me.

This drunk knew exactly what he was doing. Everything was calculated.

He never actually restrained Natalie—just tried to disgust and provoke us. No more bruises, no more marks the cops could see. It was a sick kind of genius.

As long as he didn’t physically restrain her, I couldn’t claim emergency self-defense.

He followed me, reached out, touched Natalie’s belly, and grinned, “Little one, be good. When you crawl out of your mom’s belly, I’ll visit your kindergarten often.”

His words twisted the knife again. I wanted to tear him apart, but Natalie’s safety mattered more than revenge.

I forced myself to breathe and made for the shop door.

Thankfully, a cab was on the street. I flagged it down. My mom told the driver, “Please, take my daughter-in-law to the hospital, quick!”

The driver, a middle-aged woman, took one look at Natalie and nodded, unlocking the doors. My mom and I bundled Natalie into the back seat.

But I didn’t get in.

I stood on the curb, watching my family disappear into the night. The city lights flickered, casting long shadows. My heart ached with every passing second.

My mom rolled down the window and pleaded, “Get in! Don’t worry about him—come to the hospital with us!”

Her voice was raw, desperate. I shook my head, refusing to leave.

Natalie, in pain, said, “Let’s close this shop. We’ll transfer it tomorrow and move somewhere else, where he can’t find us.”

Her words were a lifeline—a promise of hope. I nodded, vowing to make it happen.

I forced a smile, walked to the other side, leaned in, kissed Natalie’s forehead, and waved to the driver.

She pressed her lips to my cheek, tears hot. The driver pulled away, tires screeching. I watched them disappear, praying for their safety.

Natalie understood. She couldn’t hold back her sobs, but the cab was already gone.

Her face pressed to the window, eyes locked on mine until the cab turned the corner.

I watched the cab drive off. The drunk spat on the ground. “So boring. I’m going home.”

He swaggered for the exit, indifferent—a final insult.

I reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

He stopped. I tightened my grip. He turned, eyes wide for the first time.

He grinned, as if his plan had worked. “I was wrong, buddy. I sincerely apologize. Sorry.”

His words were rehearsed, meant for the cameras. He raised his hands in mock surrender, eyes darting to the security camera.

That apology wasn’t for me—it was for the police, the judge, the jury. The little red light on the camera blinked, recording every word.

As long as I hit him, the footage would show he’d apologized and stopped harassing us, but I still chose to attack.

He didn’t fight, just grinned wider, certain he was safe. I dragged him into the shop.

He sprawled in a chair, arms wide. “The cops will be here soon. If you’re upset, just hit me. I won’t fight back.”

His voice was steady, but his eyes darted. The bravado was slipping.

I glanced at him, then tore down the shop’s chicken and waffles poster.

Behind it was the fire cabinet. The glass was dusty, the red axe inside gleaming. I smashed the glass with my elbow, shards tinkling onto the linoleum. My heart pounded.

I opened the cabinet, took out the heavy fire axe, and walked toward the drunk.

The axe’s weight settled in my hands, cold and heavy. He finally stopped grinning. Sirens wailed in the distance. This time, I wasn’t sure who I was saving.