Striking Back

Sirens wail. I can hear them through the glass and the curtains that cover the windows. It is gloomy in here, an early dusk brought by the drapes that shut out the light - I like it that way, it shuts out the world. I am sitting on the floor, my head bowed, staring at the filthy carpet between my feet. My hand is shaking slightly, I think I am in shock. Owen sits across from me, slumped untidily in the corner his legs akimbo, his eyes staring. He hasn't spoken for a long time, and I dare not break the silence now. I want to tell Owen how much I love him, that I'm sorry for hurting him, for being so typically me, but the words will not come.
Sirens wail. They are closer now, almost at my street. My body aches where Owen kicked me. I think he cracked some ribs, and my eye is swollen shut where he punched me, but I don't hate him. It's my fault anyway, I shouldn't have argued, it upset him, and now he will not speak to me. The silence is thick between us. I have to do something, I need to stop him hating me. I crawl forward and put my hand on his shoulder, but his eyes are glazed and look straight through me.
'Owen?' My voice sounds thin and frail in the darkness. I get no response. I touch his face with my fingers, trail them down his neck to his chest, to the warm, sticky flood that has stained his shirt. I jerk my hand away as the last half an hour comes back to me in a rush.
Sirens wail. The police are at the door now, shouting through the letter box, now bashing at the door with a heavy object. I called them not long ago, shortly after my husband tried to strangle me in his rage. Now I think he is dead.