In my mind’s eye, I could see myself slamming my fist into his face again and again — blood spattering, his nose breaking, teeth cracking. How many times had I thought about killing him? I used to dream about it, how I’d stand up to him one day, how I’d prove he never broke me. I’d relish the shock on his face before he died. I even used to imagine what would happen after I killed him; what I’d say in court, how I’d survive in prison.
