He Started It

by Samantha Downing

Still. If everything falls apart and we all start killing one another, she goes first. You think I said that for shock value. I didn’t.

Men who raised their voices, who showed any kind of violence, repulsed me. I wanted the quiet guy in the corner, the one on his laptop or reading a book, or just standing around being awkward.

You knew about her. Even if you didn’t consciously know, you knew because it’s how these stories go. It’s a law. Maybe even written in stone by now. There’s always a missing girl.

Sometimes we are a family of assholes. You can blame that on Grandpa, he started it.

“I swear to God,” Portia says. “The lengths men will go to memorialize themselves.”

Violence always starts with the slam of door or a fist. It never ends there.

And for the most part, he’s been a wonderful husband—at least right up until he slammed his fist on the dashboard, reminding me that even the kind, easygoing men are capable of violence. I’m not waiting around to see if that fist hits me.