I heard things smashing downstairs, a usual precursor to the fights my foster mother and her boyfriend have, and by now, it was a regular occurrence. I couldn't do anything; I'd get inevitably hurt, and Gazelle would feel guilty when it was all over, I would know, I tried to stand up for her a few months ago, and for my troubles, received a black eye, and he usually never hit her; she knew how to defend herself.
So, I reached for my noise cancelling earmuffs, and tried to wait this out, hoping that my morals wouldn't interfere with my reason, like they had so many times in the past. But to be fair, it had happened many times in the past, so it was inevitable, I realized, taking off my earmuffs, the ambience and shouting a bit much for my
sensitive ears.
But I toughed it out, and managed to walk to the door to my room quietly; and twisted the knob beforehand, only after fully turning the knob, opening it for the maximum level of silence.
I was out in the hall, separated from their madness by a flight of stairs.
I sat down on the first step, grimacing when it creaked.
I waited for them to continue fighting; but they had paused.
They knew I was here. Crap.
I sighed, my hands shaking, as I knew what was coming next.
"Are there, you little creep? Get down here now, little bastard! You better not be recording, or I'll-"
"Shut up for once, and get out this house, before I call the fucking police, Jamell!"
Gazelle screamed, and Jamell stopped; before walking to where I was.
It was an empty threat; we all knew it. She cared too much about him; had too soft a heart to see him go to jail.
I saw his balding head from here. He wasn't a strong guy, per se; he's an athletic IT helper; his money helped us through some tough times; partly why Gazelle can't take the chance that he leaves.
I knew going into my room was futile and would only make it worse. So, I stood up, and walked to the bathroom. If I bled, I'd clean it up, and there wasn't any chance of either of us falling down the stairs.
He bounded up, thinking I was running; I usually put on a face of fear when he was like this; it made satisfied his vanity, while making him less likely to continue to hit me; at least in theory, but that theory had long since been disproven; and now I was stuck having to pretend to be afraid of him, or he'd actually hurt me.
A split lip was nothing compared to a back eye; which yes, was from a time I decided that I was tired of pretending to be afraid of him and tried to be a white knight for Gazelle.
After a few seconds of his slapping, and my false crying; Gazelle is on him; actually punching him with the intent to hurt.
Wait. This wasn't supposed to be the list of events. He hits me, I cry, Gazelle tries to pull him off me, or screams at him.
She wasn't supposed to hit him. Has she gone crazy? She knows how this goes.
I stand there in a daze, as she uses her full strength to punch him; and I see it all in slow motion; I think adrenaline, something I had been studying about in school,was coursing through my veins as I saw her get a lucky fully powered fist into his jaw; he's unconscious.
He falls over, shocked, and for once; is at my feet.
Gazelle stops; but all the bad things he has done accumulate in my head, and at this moment, I cannot be impartial like I usually am.
I ready a kick, and kick him right in the eye.
Eye for a fucking eye.
I don't like cursing, but this time I'll make an exception.
But as my body begins to ache; and what I think is adrenaline leaves my body; I realize what I've done.
Crap.
Well. He deserved it, but when he wakes up, he'll probably sue Gazelle.
But he won't win.
I've recorded some of their fights, which is why he was so careful around Gazelle. But me? As a foster kid, I'm free game.
I walk to my room, dig in the hole Jamell had made when he had last smashed this door open, and pulled out a small camera. I had gotten it at a church charity. I'm sure that it was left there on accident by one of the people who organized the charity, but I was willing to ignore that for the possibility that I would have something against him.
I gave the camera to her, and hobbled back to my room; my foot might be sprained. My face is no doubt going to bruise, but whatever.
I put on my shoes, until I feel something wet on my socks. I pressed my finger to the small spot; and inspected it; and it came back greasy and red. Blood.
Shit.