Chapter Thirty-Nine Edith #2
“So what, you were going to run away with my girls?” Dad demands. “While I was at work, busting my ass to pay our bills, working myself until I’m exhausted?”
When I reach for the handle, it gives easily.
The door creaks open.
I stiffen at the sound, worried they’ll hear me, but they’re too busy arguing to notice.
Their arguments were always so intense they forgot everything else.
Even me.
“You can’t leave.” Dad screams, sending spittle flying. His face is red with rage as he waves her bag in front of her. “You need me. You won’t survive without me.”
“I deserve better,” Mom says. “And so do our girls.”
“They deserve to know their father,” he shouts, flinging the bag past her. It hits the wall with a dull thud, sounding like a body. “You can’t steal them from me.”
He takes a menacing step toward her.
I rush into the room, trying to grab hold of his arm, but my hands pass right through him like wisps of smoke.
I’m just as helpless to stop this as I was back then.
All I can do is watch as he backhands Mom.
But he doesn’t just hit her. Claws come out, leaving long slices across her cheek, splitting skin.
As her blood wells, I start to hyperventilate.
It’s just like what I did to Jason.
“Asshole,” she mutters, her eyes flashing as she wipes her face with the back of her hand. “You don’t deserve shit.”
A low, guttural growl rises from Dad.
I leap in front of Mom, desperate to protect her.
He charges toward us—toward me.
But Dad passes right through me and grabs her. “You think anyone else will want to take on this burden? You and two children? As if anyone else could love you?”
“This isn’t love,” Mom snarls.
She rips her arm free with a sudden burst of strength.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
“Leaving,” she says, grabbing the bag off the floor. “Like I should have a long time ago.”
Dad blocks the door. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Get out of my way,” Mom says, struggling to push past him. “Or I’ll call the cops.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me.” He knocks her aside, sending her slamming into the dresser. Her head smacks on the corner, tearing a gash in her forehead. Blood covers half her face like a curtain.
They both stand there, stunned.
“Look what you’ve done,” Dad says, his forehead creasing in concern. “Are you okay?” His voice turns soft. Gentle. He gets close, trying to inspect her injury.
Mom lashes out at him.
Only this time, she, too, has long claws that cut.
She stares at her hands in shocked disbelief—just like I am.
Dad bares his teeth. “You bitch.”
Short, dark claws break free of his fingertips.
The hair on his arms and face grows thicker, covering more and more of his skin, until he’s coated in fur.
There’s the awful sound of snapping bone as his body ripples and reshapes itself.
But his transformation isn’t complete. He’s part wolf, part man, all monster.
Mom runs past him, but he catches her. Throws her on the ground.
He lands on top of her.
“Get off me!” she screams.
She makes a keening sound, tears and spit streaking her face. She throws Dad off and curls up in the corner of the room, a protective position. Her whole body trembles with the force of her sobs. She covers the back of her head, her light-colored claws gleaming.
Her skin starts to ripple.
I stand there, unable to move, watching as the wolf attacks her. She tries to fight back, turning wild herself. She claws the wolf’s flesh, sending blood splattering over the carpet. The fight doesn’t last long. She’s only human, and he is an animal.
I try to rip the wolf away from her, but I can’t.
Mom doesn’t stop fighting. She tears at him with her claws, each as long as her fingers, and shreds his back open, exposing muscle and bone. Crashes and bangs fill my ears as the sounds devolve into two primal animals fighting for survival, all snarls and growls and snapping teeth—
Mom goes still.
Silent.
There’s a small, tiny creak, quiet as a mouse.
Panic shines in the wolf’s eyes, his fur matted with blood, as he turns toward the door.
We both do.
Through the sliver of an opening, a little girl peeks in. Her gray eyes shoot wide.
And then she starts screaming.
Wincing, I throw my hands over my ears.
I’m not the only one. The wolf tries to cover his too, staggering toward the door.
As she screams, his fur slowly recedes. The sound is powerful. Primal. It reminds me how I felt screaming before the crater in the wilderness.
The wolf turns into a man again, covered in deep, desperate scratches. He doesn’t make it far before he collapses to the ground, his hands over his bleeding ears.
Neither of my parents moves again.
I collapse, falling to all fours. Mom did try to leave. Dad just wouldn’t let her. My palms press into the carpet, wet and sticky with blood. Mom finally fought back. She had claws—I know I saw them. Her claws were the same as mine: long and light colored and strong.
Mom was a berserkr too.
One who never fully transformed either.
Helga’s words come back to me. Most berserkir remain latent their whole lives—especially women, given that society is always teaching us to suppress our anger instead of expressing it.
Tears fall, splattering my clenched fists.
Mom always tried to smile, to hide her pain, to act like everything was okay.
That’s what kept her from fighting back for so long, isn’t it?
Maybe anger is a weapon. It can be used to hurt others, but it can also protect you.
If Mom had acknowledged and listened to her anger sooner… she might have left earlier.
She might have saved herself.
The door opens wider. Light from the hallway floods over me, shining on my face. I look up to see the little girl standing there, silhouetted by the light. She whimpers, rubbing her eyes roughly with her pajamas. Fat tears stream down her cheeks as she stands there, scared and alone.
My heart misses a beat. I almost didn’t recognize myself.
I crawl toward the crying little girl.
She’s always been here. Inside me. I’ve been ignoring her for too long, turning her away. I wrap my arms around myself. I don’t want to pretend things are okay even when they aren’t. By doing that, I’ve only been hurting myself more than anyone else.
Enough pretending.