Scott Owens		To Escape the Familiar Somewhere someone is beating a woman. He works at her face until his hands crack the bridge of her nose. Then he kneels down beside her, certain he is sorry, that it’ll never happen again. She thought the first time would be the last, blamed it on the weather, his day at work, the house not the way he wanted, anything that wouldn’t linger, wouldn’t happen again, anything she could do something about. He doesn’t know why he does it. He thinks maybe it helps him feel again, something he lost without knowing where. Her body opens beneath him, purple flowers blooming in her cheeks. When he leaves she finds the scraps of her childhood, touches soft buttons of cloth. She knows nothing soft is left in her. She knows she is nothing like the names he calls and never will be again. “She bruises so easy,” he says. “Her bones are brittle and break at the slightest touch. When we make love I have to hold her like a baby doll, a piece of china, a crystal cup.” She dreams of wings unfolding, trains disappearing into darkness, roads that lead her to where she’s never been, places she can only imagine, places she’ll never come back from. He thinks it could stay like this forever. He gives her everything she needs. She does whatever he asks, cooks, cleans, makes him feel good. To him they are the perfect pair, her face, his hands. She knows she will never leave him. She grows larger each day, waiting until she can surprise him with a well-placed knee, a knife, a gun, a notes that says, “I wanted to give him something back.”		The Saving Grace of Distance If he could have reached the gun, the black barrel hung just above the door, he would have pulled the trigger, spreading shot everywhere. He’d done it before, even at 8, with his grandfather in the field, spraying pellets into soft bodies of milk jugs, coffee cans, hay bales, all of which meant more to him than this man he had to call Daddy. His mother lying on the floor, blood streaming from her mouth and nose was all the reason he needed. Instead, he charged, felt the sting against his own face, tasted blood as teeth clenched on the hand before him, felt the floor go out from under him, saw the wall hurtling past, the man disappearing behind another closed door.