The first time Tom hit me, I was eight months pregnant. Slapped me across the face so hard, I saw tiny white stars, even though I was indoors. I was twenty-two, he was thirty-five.
I was eight months pregnant and waddling like a duck; he was approximately one hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle. He took part in triathlons, ran five kilometers every day, had wheatgrass and quinoa for breakfast, a green salad with no dressing for lunch, and usually ate lean chicken breast with three different colored vegetables for dinner.
Fit, disciplined, and focused - that was my husband.
Throughout my two years of marriage, I'd seen bursts of his rage - towards me and others, and his road-rage - now that was the worst - it terrified me. Especially since he liked to take on truck drivers. The bigger the truck, the greater...