Once, in our final year of high school—when he saw my father drag me half-naked by the hair into the street, trying to drown me in the river. That was the night he stabbed my father eighteen times.
The second time was now—over a girl's miscarriage.
He crushed my shoulders, demanding to know my "cruelty."
"How rare," I sneered, "to see President Vazquez actually lose control."
"You're a woman too! How could you do this to her?" he thundered.
"You already said it yourself," I leaned closer, whispering, "between us, there's no divorce. Only death. If you can't kill me, I'll kill you both instead."
Blood dripped to the floor.
He finally noticed the cuts on my hand from smashing the glass. His grip slowly loosened.
"Good," he murmured. "I didn't want that child anyway."
He took my hand, carefully wiping away the blood. When he dabbed iodine onto the wound, he blew gently, the way he always did.
It was a habit born years ago, when I'd come home covered in bruises from my father's beatings. He hadn't had anything but alcohol to disinfect my wounds, and he'd always blown softly, as if it could ease the sting.
Now, even with proper medicine, he was still careful—still afraid of hurting me.