It’d taken her two hours to write the letter: rough draft, corrections, a rewording here a cancellation there. She’d decided this time she was really through with him. She was tired of his rages. She’d decided that writing him she wouldn’t have to face a third degree … and worse his anger.
The door bell rang. She looked through the video on the house phone. It was him. Her eye strayed to the mirror by the doorway. Eye, because one was swollen shut where he’d hit her just the night before in one of his drunken fits.
She thought she’d just ignore him. Maybe he’d just leave. But no, he began to pound on her door.
“I know you’re in there, putana! Let me in!” he yelled drunkenly slurring his words.
Shaking, she took out her cell phone and dialed 113.
“Pronto, Carabinieri. Can I help you?” a smiling voice came over the phone.
“Yes please come quickly, there’s a man at my door, he wants to kill me.”
“Presto … give me your address.” He urged her in a calm precise voice.
Too late, the door caved in.
They found her following the phone’s gps … there laid the letter, unmailed, by her body.