The Man Who Looks Like Him

Trigger Warning: domestic abuse, obsessive platonic limerence, and m*rd*r. Reader discretion is advised. - -- - The gavel struck once, and Taylor Loudrick flinched hard enough for the chain at her wrists to clink against the defense table. The sound was small in the grand scheme of things. Just wood on wood. But in the silence that followed, it felt like a gunshot. Taylor kept her eyes on the grain of the table in front of her, on the tiny crescent scratch near the edge where someone else—another defendant, another ruined life—had dug a fingernail into the varnish. Anywhere but the judge. Anywhere but the rows of faces behind her. Her lawyer’s hand landed gently on her shoulder. It was meant to comfort, but only made her feel cornered. “Mrs. Taylor Ann Loudrick,” the judge said, voice steady and practiced, “this court finds that while the death of your husband occurred during a domestic dispute, the evidence presented does not sufficiently support a full acquittal on the grounds of self-defense.” Domestic dispute. Taylor’s jaw locked so tightly it ached. That was what they had called ten years of fear. A dispute. Like she and Andrew had simply argued too hard over bills or laundry or who forgot to lock the back door. As if bruises were a disagreement. As if terror was a marital issue. As if the memory of him coming at her with a knife belonged in the same category as raised voices and slammed cabinets. Somewhere behind her, muffled by distance and restraint, her mother made a sound like something had been torn open. Taylor didn’t turn around. If she looked at her, she might break. And Taylor had spent too many years learning how not to break in front of other people. “You are hereby sentenced,” the judge continued, “to a term of five years in the Virginia Women’s Correctional Institute, with eligibility for parole subject to institutional review.” Five years. The words didn’t land all at once. They came apart in pieces, drifting through her mind like ash. Five years for surviving. Five years for not dying on her own kitchen floor. Five years because Andrew had missed. Her lawyer leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We’ll appeal,” he murmured, though he sounded like a man already tired of his own optimism. Taylor only stared ahead. The courtroom was too cold. Or maybe she was. She couldn’t tell anymore. At the prosecution table, Andrew’s sister sat stiff-backed in a navy blouse, her lips pressed into a thin line of grief and vindication. She had cried on the stand. She had called Andrew generous, loyal, protective. Protective. Taylor almost laughed. Instead, she looked past her and found the gallery blurred at the edges. Faces melted into one another—strangers, reporters, curious locals, people who had come to witness the downfall of a woman who killed her husband in their neat, little, Virginia town. She wondered what story they would tell about her over dinner. That she snapped? That she was cold? That Andrew Loudrick had been a good man and she’d put a bullet through his chest anyway? No one ever wanted the ugly truth. The ugly truth was harder to package. Harder to swallow. The ugly truth was that Andrew had known exactly who to be when other people were watching. He had been handsome in a forgettable, all-American sort of way: clean smile, easy laugh. Broad shoulders that made women feel safe and men clap him on the back like they’d known him forever. He held doors. Remembered birthdays. Called her beautiful in front of other people. And behind closed doors, he taught her how quickly love could turn into ownership. At first, it had been little things. “Why are you wearing that?” “Who keeps texting you?” “I just worry about you, baby. You know how men are.” Then came the apologies. The flowers. The promises. The tears that made her feel cruel for being afraid. Then came the isolation so gradual she didn’t see it until she looked up and realized there was no one left to call. Then came the first time he put his hands on her. Followed by the second. Then all the times after that, until fear stopped feeling like an event and started feeling like weather—something constant, oppressive, inescapable.