That night, I dream of the incident that set this all in motion. The moment I refer to as the final nail in the coffin–the event that finally forced my mother to accept we needed to leave him.
It happened in the middle of the night. I was jerked awake by the sound of his voice, which had the power to seep through every wall in the house, no matter how far away he was. I couldn't hear her, I never could. I didn't know whether it was because her voice couldn't travel the distance like his could, or if it was because she didn't bother to speak anymore; I have a feeling it was the latter.
I tilted back my head, resting it on the leather headboard as I hummed to block out the noise. But no amount of humming could block out the noise that followed–a piercing scream followed by the worst sound of all: silence.
In the silence, anything could happen. I sat frozen, clinging to the slightest of sounds, but as the seconds ticked away, only silence answered back.
I swung into action, tripping over my feet to get to the door, desperately reaching for the handle. Once I reached the top of the stairs, I hesitated, my fight or flight instincts kicking in. I ignored the panic in my throat and focused on my adrenaline, using it to force me into action.
I darted down the stairs two at a time, almost sliding across the marble tiles as I made it to the bottom. I strained my ears to listen to the only voice I could hear, his. It was always his. But at least it meant she was alive.
My movements became slower the closer I got to the sound. I tiptoed towards the kitchen, too afraid to make my presence known. My father stood hunched over my mother, his frame so large it completely shielded her from view.
"I'm going to ask you one last time," he said. It was the tone he always used to trick us into thinking he was no longer angry, that he'd calmed down enough to be reasoned with. My mother fell for it every time, but I'm old enough to know that a man like him can never be reasoned with. It was often in his calmest state that he acted the cruelest. "Are you seeing him?"
Silence answered his accusation, and I was afraid any moment, he'd be able to hear the wild thumping of my heart.
"Answer me," he said, his voice louder this time, more urgent.
Answer him, I wanted to scream. Tell him what he wants to hear. After all of these years, didn't she know how this worked?
His left hand suddenly grabbed a handful of her hair, causing her to whimper again.
"Please," she said quietly.
He reached down with his other hand and slapped her across the face. I straightened up, the sound of his slap jerking me into action. I charged into the kitchen, shoving him off her before I could think.
My father paused, baffled by my sudden arrival, and I took it as my opportunity to crouch over her, skimming her mascara-stained face. I didn't meet her eyes, I couldn't, but I shielded her the best I could, meeting my father's, instead.
We have the same eyes me and him. Green, with little flecks of yellow and brown, like the color of leaves at the beginning of autumn, just as they're beginning to fall from the trees.
"Go back upstairs," he warned in that same calm voice. "This doesn't concern you."
It was his subtle way of giving me a way out unscathed. To turn and make my way back upstairs, pretending not to have seen anything. One last chance, before he made me regret it.
I glanced at my mother. Gone was her usual sarcastic expression. All that remained as she lay sprawled across the tiles was a defenseless, empty woman. And if I didn't protect her, who would?
I looked at my father with quiet resolve. No matter how weak I felt, I didn't let my voice quiver once when I spoke. "Touch her again and I'll kill you."
I locked eyes with his. My father is the type who'd wait until you least expect it before making his move; I knew better than to turn my back on him.
He let out a laugh, his expression poisonous as he grabbed me by the front of my shirt and threw me out of the way.
My father had never hit me before. He'd pushed me around a lot, thrown objects in my general direction, but not once had he hit me. I'd never given him cause to. I made sure I stayed out of his way and in turn, he stayed out of mine. I knew how to play by his rules–it was my mother who didn't.
It was this fact that seemed to lull me into a false sense of security, and I made a mistake. I assumed that because he had never hit me, I was safe. That was why, when he reached for my mother again, I grabbed hold of both of his ankles and yanked them back.
He didn't fall to his knees as I'd expected. Instead, he was so shocked, he didn't put his hands out until the very last second, only just managing to protect his head from the tiles. But the noise his body made as it slammed to the floor was enough to make me convulse with fear.
My mind screamed at me to run, but I was frozen in place, focused only on his stirring body. A movement to my left caught my eye and I turned my head slightly. My mother got to her knees and looked over at me, her eyes wild and panicked.
Neither of us had time to speak. He was already getting up. A sick part of me had hoped he wouldn't, that the impact would have knocked him unconscious, but no such luck. His eyes looked murderous as he rose to his feet, leaving me feeling faint. I quickly scrambled to my own feet, ready to defend myself, not that I knew how to. Especially not against him.
My mother moved in front of me, shielding my body with hers. She reached behind her, hand outstretched, and I threaded my fingers through hers.
"How dare you," he hissed. "How dare you disrespect me like this in my own house."
"It was an accident," I said weakly. "I didn't–I just–"
"Shut up," he spat, his muscles contracted. "I could have you arrested for this. Is that what you want? You wouldn't last a minute in jail."
He pushed past Mom and shoved me backward, causing the small of my back to collide with the counter's glass edge. A searing pain traveled around the circumference of my body and I knelt over, clutching at my side.
"You ungrateful little bitches," he said, grabbing me by the hair. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he did, a smell I had long grown accustomed to. "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have any of this."
I tried to push him away, refusing to be the fragile doll my mother had become, but it was no use. Instead, I closed my eyes, wishing I could block out his face forever.
"Please," Mom said. "She's just tired."
He looked between us before letting go of my hair and pushing me away from him. "You both make me sick," he said, and then finally, he stormed out of the kitchen.
I turned and studied my mother, but she refused to look at me. "He provides for us, Maddie," she said quietly. "Without him, we would have nothing."
I slowly dropped my hand from my side, straightening up. "And with him, we still have nothing," I said. Then I did what my father was best at and turned my back on her.