Her back ached from where the coffee table had split on her spine. Its splinters spread around her in chaotic debris, she looked up through black swimming spots. He was a shape now, just hovering around her. A spirit perhaps, an angry devil. She heard that enraged ghosts could toss people about like rag dolls. She knew he wasn’t possessed, though. He was drinking again. Maybe there was demon enough in the liquor. She could smell the stale whiskey as his huge form hunkered towards her. They’d bought the coffee table at that antique store on Congress, the one with the Eiffel Tower in front. She fell in love with its sturdy oak frame and carved images of leaves and woodland scenes. When they purchased the table she had joked that it would long out live them because of its robust form and thick demeanor. Perhaps it had been his intention to smash it when he threw her. The coffee table was the only piece of living room furniture that truly echoed her presence. Breaking it was bonus for possibly shattering her vertebrae. She couldn’t breathe well, just continue to suck at sharp air. There was a heavy potential that her rib had embedded itself into her lung and she was slowly drowning in her own blood. Her eyes had begun to swell themselves shut and she heard him cursing at the mess she’d made of their entertaining room. She could barely see him now through the thick lids. He was pounding his fists against something. Then he quickly crossed the room and pulled out their oversized TV in a single swipe, sending it to crush her stained purple yellow face, now thick with oozing maroon blood, a rainbow beating. The coffee table in pieces, just like her.