Lunging forward, I wrapped my arms around his middle in an attempt to pull him off of her. When that didn’t work, I kicked the back of his legs. I’d dislocated that boy’s knees, I could do the same to him if I had to.
“Please! Get off of her!”
“You little brat! She deserves this! You both do!” Flinging me off his back, he released Mom from his grip for just a second. It was enough for her to slump to the ground, motionless.
Instead of going back to her, he walked into the kitchen. I didn’t know what he was doing, so I took the opportunity to help Mom.
“Mom.” I got down on my knees in front of her limp body. “Wake up. Come on, Mom. Please wake up. Mom!”
Before I could even react, his heavy footsteps returned. The moment I spun around to face him, it was too late. The bottle was already flying through the air before it shattered against the wall, glass shards raining down on us.
I tried to cover my head and protect Mom, but a sting of pain shot across my face.
Another bottle smashed against the wall, and then another, until the living room was a war zone, a battlefield covered in tiny little shards.
Rhythmic thuds against the floorboards filled my ears. Footsteps. Were they coming closer or were they retreating?
I braced myself to be hit, but the impact never came. The house was suspiciously quiet, but I didn’t dare move a muscle.
I lay on the floor for minutes…hours?
I wasn’t sure how long it’d been, but eventually, I hauled myself to my feet even though I felt weak, so weak. Taking in my surroundings, I surveyed the damage. Mom was still unconscious, and blood dripped down her face. Glass, some pieces speckled with red splotches, covered the hardwood, and sticky liquid pooled on the ground. Beer or blood, I couldn’t tell.
The tang of copper filled my nostrils, and I pressed my fingers to the skin under my eye, wincing with the sting of pain that came with it before my hand retreated back down under my gaze.
Blood clung to my fingertips, and I squeezed my eyes shut, a lightheadedness threatening to overtake me. I’d deal with my injury later. I needed to help her.
Keeping my footsteps as light as possible, I stepped into the kitchen. My father had fallen to a drunken heap on the floor, but he was still breathing. I could tell by the rising and falling of his chest.
On my way over, I had debated grabbing one of the jagged pieces that covered the floor. It would be so easy, too easy, to plunge one of those pieces into his back, stab him like he’d stabbed us. Even if it wasn’t literally, but psychologically. My scars may not have been visible, but I’dbore them for years, had taken blow after blow, cut after cut.
Yes. He deserves this. I won’t be his punching bag any longer.
Leaning down, I picked up a piece of glass.
I can end everything right now. All the suffering. All the pain.
No one—not me, nor my mother—would ever have to live in fear again.
The sharp tip cut into my fingertip, but I let it fall back down to the floor. I didn’t do it—couldn’t do it—because if I went to prison because I got rid of him, it would affect the people I loved. So, instead, I reached for the phone on the counter and dialed three numbers.
“911, what’s the address of your emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice on the other end of the phone line crackled in my ear. “Hello? Are you there?”
Despite the shake in my voice, I spoke as clearly as I could. “Hi, yes, I’m here.”
“What’s the address of your emergency, hon?”
“2210 Sparrow Lane in Goldfinch.” The address rattled off my tongue as I looked around, making sure my father wasn’t getting up and couldn’t hurt us more than he already had.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“My…my father. He hurt us—me and my mom. Um…” My voice cracked as I walked back over to my mom. She was still unconscious, though she appeared to be breathing, just much slower than normal. “She’s not moving. My father choked her then threw glass bottles at us. T-there’s so much blood.”
“Is he still there?”
“Yes. But he’s not awake, either. He was drunk.”
I heard typing in the background as the dispatcher listened.
