The odor of alcohol mixed with the rotten food stuck onto the dishes in the sink. It kept attacking my nostrils, forcing my stomach to do flips. My brain yelled at my body for not concentrating on the issue at hand. With his fingers around my neck, was bad smell really my primary concern?

His fingers curled around my neck. Not tight enough to holler for the police, but too tight for comfort. Too tight for me to gulp. His eyes started directly into mine, overcome with anger. Spiteful words sprung from his mouth.

"You're a piece of garbage."

"You're worthless."

Tears filled up my eyes but didn't dare to fall down. I knew crying was a bad idea. It would only serve to infuriate him further in his intoxicated state. He was so large, and his arms so strong, that all he needed to do was lift his hands slightly and my body would follow. He could easily pick me off of my feet. He hadn't even bothered to lift his other hand; one was enough to cover the area necessary to grab.

I didn't like his fingers around my neck. In fact, I worried I might throw up, which would be much worse than crying. But I didn't panic. I didn't yell. I didn't blabber, like I usually did. I whispered softly. There were people in the living room and I wasn't about to make a scene. I wanted this to end as quickly as possible. I didn't even disagree.

"You're no better than the scum in the trashcan," didn't sound so far-fetched to me. I really had provoked him, although for the life of me, I couldn't remember how this particular fight had started. He might have been right. He probably was right.

All I wanted was for this to stop. As the tears started pouring down my cheeks, I apologized. I told him he was right. I'd fix it, whatever it was. I'd make it better. We could work it out. We would work it out. At that moment, nothing mattered besides his happiness. He was right and I was wrong. I needed him to forgive me.

The stench of vodka burned my eyes. The heat in the room made his palm sweat. His voice was getting louder and I worried his friends would overhear. I whispered more, as if to overcompensate for his lack of quiet. I tried to reason with him. I told him that I loved him and that I would fix it. I was there for him. I'd always been there for him. We'd make it work. My mind buzzed, like an overzealous student, trying to find the right words. The magic words.

Anything.

I wasn't angry. I didn't doubt him. Nor hate him. All that would come later. For now, I was desperate. Desperate for him to understand. Desperate for him to love me again. For the anger to dissipate. For the hatred to end. I begged. I groveled. I cried.

He let go.

Previously? Competition.