Chapter 2
TWO
VIC
We were buried in our Anatomy and Physiology notes, studying for our exam, when my asshole of a father got home from work, shattering our peace.
He’s good at that—causing chaos. I didn’t want to leave her.
When she told me to be careful, it gutted me.
So many times she’d play nurse, and not in the way I fantasized about.
She helped patch me up. Tending to my battered and bruised body when I stepped in the path of my father’s fists.
If it wasn’t me, then it would have been my mother.
I'm not stronger than my father, but I am bigger than she is. I’ve learned to stand up for myself.
To absorb the blows he deals out. I’m just not a big enough match for him yet, but one day I will be.
I slip along the side of the house, past the flaking paint and dying flowers my mom planted years ago.
Left to wither among the weeds where nothing thrives.
Boosting myself through the window, which I left partially open, I slide in quietly into my bedroom.
I lift my bookbag over to the side, hitting the floor with a loud thud.
Just then, I hear my father’s sharp, accusing voice cut through my mother’s desperate pleas echoing from the kitchen. The sound freezes me in place.
The escalating argument jars me into action, reminding me to close the window.
I look behind me and shut it, praying that no one calls the cops this time, but it doesn’t matter.
Setting the latch in place, I see Dani across the way, her eyes stricken with worry.
This isn’t the first time she’s witnessed this behavior from my father, which makes her concern for me all the more valid.
She mouths a “Please,” and blows me a kiss, her hand lingering on the window pane like she can hold me there and keep me safe.
Her earlier plea to be careful, left unsaid.
I hold her stare and nod once without looking back.
Then I walk toward the sound that will forever haunt my dreams—a blood-curdling scream.
I run toward the kitchen, with my heart beating rapidly, threatening to come out of my chest. As I round the corner, the first thing I see is blood.
It’s a stark contrast to the black and white retro tiles lining the floor.
My father stands frozen over my mother’s body, his expression is a mixture of shock and rage.
His hands lay by his side, fists flexing and unflexing uncontrollably.
I run over to my mother, without thought for my safety, and see that she is still breathing.
“Thank God. Thank God,” I murmur as I take in her shallow breaths, but she’s still alive.
My father stands motionless, making no move to help.
I shoulder past him, ignoring him, and call for help.
The dispatcher’s calm, methodical voice comes over the line, asking questions about my situation.
I manage to tell them that she's still breathing, but barely. But she needs help now. I know because I see it. The light fades from her eyes as her blood spreads beneath her, its warmth slipping away with her last breath. Dispatch says an ambulance is on the way, but it doesn’t matter.
Because a quiet truth brews inside me, bubbling silent and merciless, but I push it down.
I realize that it will be too late, and I can’t save her.
My hope dies, and some part of me knows that this moment will forever change me.
I reluctantly release my mom, remembering all the times she kept me out of harm's way. Standing, I turn toward the cause of all our pain and suffering. “What happened?” I scream at my father as he stands there in a daze, still unmoving. He doesn’t acknowledge me.
Then the wailing sound of approaching sirens and someone banging on the front door prompts a reaction from him now.
He shifts, blinking as if waking from a dream, but this is no dream.
It’s a nightmare I can’t escape, and I’m trapped in the final act of my own Shakespearean tragedy.
I don’t hesitate as I rush over to the door, throwing it open.
The paramedics pile in, gear slung over their shoulders, assessing the scene as they move in.
I motion for them to follow and hurry toward her.
They drop to their knees beside my mother.
Their training takes over as they check her vital signs and start an IV, moving with practiced urgency.
All I can do is stare. Then they slide her onto a stretcher, rushing toward the waiting ambulance.
I catch snippets of their words like “Quick, we have to go!” and “We are losing her!” as they disappear out the door.
As they load her into the back of the ambulance to take her to the nearest hospital, I know that she won’t be coming back.
That she is gone despite their effort to resuscitate her.
I stare out the window, watching as my father leaves with them, escorted by police, no doubt gathering further evidence of what they witnessed.
What lies will he spin? Will he tell them the whole truth, partial truth, or all lies?
I know better than to expect honesty. He’ll save himself, no matter the cost. At that moment, I make a silent vow to learn the skills necessary to assist those who cannot help themselves.
I never want to feel this helpless ever again, standing and watching instead of acting.
Something shifts inside me. It’s as if my very molecular composition is rearranged, reprogrammed into someone else—no, something else—that is colder and harder.
I feel detached from my body. A cold numbness replaces everything I once felt.
Through the window, I watch the ambulance disappear into the dark.
Its red lights become engulfed by the awaiting claws of the hot, humid night.
I turn away. Back in the kitchen, I crouch, staring at the crimson splatter on the otherwise pristine porcelain flooring that my mom had mercilessly cleaned time and time again.
She was always on her hands and knees, keeping the house clean for him.
I drag my finger through it, feeling the blood, sticky between my fingers, and watching it smear like paint along the floor.
The blood that was once flowing through my mother's veins is still warm, now left poikilothermic on this cold, hard surface as a stark reminder of what happens to those who can’t fight back.
I rise from the spot steadfast and reborn anew. That’s when I see her watching me.