chris watts walked so this mf could slow-run a homicide under my own roof

i know you don’t
wanna hear this shit.
but let me fucking tell you—
i was already doing the math
(88% of intimate partner homicides happen with no safety net, btw)
on the locks
and the exit plan
in my own house
with my own baby
inside my own body
because the “man of the house”
wasn’t a husband—
he was a loaded,
untreated-combat-vet-with-tbi-and-ptsd,
stimulant-fueled fucking weapon
waiting to go off
with zero accountability
and zero fucking witnesses.

besides maybe the office squad?
that endorsed cubicle adjacent infidelity
and mocked me after i survived?

yeah, i’m absolutely fucked.

you wanna know how bitches die?
it’s not the first day he hits you.

it’s the 74 days before that without a visitor
(no bystander buffer—80% of DV homicides have none).
+
it’s the venmos from the “work wife”
(third-party facilitators show up in like 40% of these toxic escalations).
+
it’s the location sharing turned off.
+
it’s the $800 in cash gone
(addiction + cash + infidelity = prep + panic, current substance abuse multiplies lethal risk 6x).
+++
it’s the fucking meds disappearing
(stimulant crash = rage spiral, 30–50% higher impulsive violence).
+
it’s you, alone
+
crying into a grocery receipt
+
wondering how he always ends up
in your bank app and not at home

but nah.
bro straight wanted me dead.
(also: non-fatal strangulation?
+700% homicide risk—yeah, that happened.)

oh and you wanna know the punchline?
if he had killed me—
not a single person
would’ve known
for at least ~four days.
bro—he almost did it.
because no check-ins.
no coworkers.
no friends paying attention.
just my wobbling pregnant ass,
and maybe a dog barking.
(isolation? lethal multiplier. statistically, that’s the season where bodies go cold.)

chris watts?
lol, that little murderous bitch.
the icon.
honestly seemed pretty chill,
before the adultery turned into familicide shit.
chris before the family annihilation?
fucking child’s play.
just fucking some bitches.
mine tried to be a fucking stealth mission speed run
a DV-thriller subplot
written by a war criminal
with untreated fucking ptsd/tbi
and backed by a finance firm
(babe—they just confirmed, they fuck with you and apparently—our policies)
full of “family values” and compliance fucking flops.
(you had the whole algorithm of doom stacked—
childhood trauma raising baseline risk,
isolation,
pregnancy kill window,
emotional triangulation,
financial drain—
and still i’m FUCKING typing this.)

this isn’t a post.
this is a fucking obituary
that missed its window.

but i didn’t.
we’re still here.
i crawled out.
i brought the math.
and now i’m bringing
the goddamn fucking lawsuit.

because what the actual fuck?

(i really would have rathered y’all just treated me
with basic human fucking decency and respect
but fucking cool, here we are)

—

✎ sammie lowe,

still not a statistic.
but absolutely
a fucking problem.