Sister must see the sadness on my face because she quicksteps over to me, leaving the unfolded laundry she was working onbehind, and tosses her arm over my shoulder. “We could have a pajama party like those girls on that show we watched the other night. It’d be fun.”
“Snacks too?” I ask, my voice full of hope.
“I’m sure we can find something to snack on,” she announces, sounding upbeat.
“We can spread our blankets across the floor and make a fort,” I reply, getting excited.
“We absolutely can do that, Two,” sister remarks, joining in on my enthusiasm. “And we can have a dance off.”
I nod, picturing our fun-filled day in my head. “It’s been a long time since we’ve done that! I can’t wait, sis.” Just then, we hear the sound of shattering glass from upstairs and both of us freeze. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Father might be back. Quick, get under the blankets and go to the corner. Make yourself as small as you can.”
“Come with me,” I beg.
“Not this time, Two. Now don’t fight me about this and do what I said.”
I hate being the weak one out of the two of us. I’m always being protected by her and never get to be the one protecting her. It takes me a minute to do as she said because I don’t want to leave her exposed. Father only crashes things when he’s spitting mad.
“Be careful,” I demand as I grab my favorite blanket, toss it over my head, and crouch into the corner while trying to blend in with the wall.
I shake and shiver as the sounds coming from above us intensify. I should’ve emptied my bladder because I’m afraid, and when I’m scared, I lose control over my bodily functions. Another blot on my person. I have so many malfunctions it’s not even funny. One is the only person who doesn’t judge me on my imperfections and I get no backlash from her when they show.
When the door handle, that’s attached to the door that leads down to our space, begins to rattle, I get the eerie feeling that the person trying to come down isn’t Father after all. “One. I don’t think that’s Father,” I briskly voice my opinion.
“I think you’re right about that,” she remarks. “Stay hidden, Two. Don’t come out unless I call for you. No matter what you hear, you keep yourself parked.”
“We’ll see,” I mumble, my words coming across as argumentative.
She doesn’t bicker with me about my sullen comment, which says a lot about how she’s feeling.
Protective being on top of that list.
The sound of wood splintering has me squeaking and pulling into myself. The ball I was in grows tighter as my fingers rake their way down my skin, my nails biting into my flesh which has blood pebbling on the surface, but the pain from the abrasions help center me.
The sounds of feet pounding on the wooden stairs have the fine hairs on my arms standing up on end. With Father, we know what to expect, but from a stranger, we’re at a loss of how to keep ourselves safe.
Haven’t we been through enough?
Can’t we ever catch a break?
Time and time again we’ve proven how strong, pliable, and amenable we are. I’m ready for life to call a truce with us and give us a much-needed break. All I want and desire is to breathe some fresh air into my lungs and feel the grass underneath my feet as I wiggle my toes into the soft blades.
I’m tired of living life walking on eggshells and feeling like the floor is nothing but pins and needles. After a while, you grow numb to it, until a new threat arises then they feel just as sharp as they did the first time you stood on them.
“Stay back!” my sister thunders, sounding like a storm brewing and lashing out from the clouds that were once a clear blue sky.
She’s a fighter, and isn’t afraid to stand her ground. Especially, if that means she makes herself a target while I hide like a coward and stay out of sight.
The man who speaks has a tone which is friendly, and it has me uncovering my eyes so I can take him in. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he swears, holding his hands up in a defensive motion. But what has my eyes widening is the gun held tightly in his grip.
Sister must see it too because she snorts, pointing her finger accusingly at him. “If that’s right, then you’ll put that away.”
“Okay,” the man replies, slowly moving his hand behind him and tucking it into the band of his jeans. “I promise, I’m here to help.”
“We don’t need any help,” my sister lies.
“Are you here of your own free will?” he continues with his line of questioning, watching her as she lifts the mop handle up and aims it at him.
