Mashed Potatoes
Lex
15 Years Old
“MORGAN!”
The scream comes from the lower level of the house, between the sound of smashing dishes. I pull my legs into my chest tighter and cover my ears, my eyes locked on my bedroom door. I barricaded it with my desk chair under the handle and then loaded as many books and other heavy items onto the chair as I could find.
Another scream rings through the otherwise silent house. The sound’s almost demonic. It had been too quiet earlier. I came home from school to complete and utter silence. It felt foreboding—it’s never that quiet. I should have known. I should have come in, and gone straight to my room, and not come out until school tomorrow. But I didn’t. I figured I would see if she was okay. I left the safety of my room and wandered to the kitchen. Working to keep my footsteps light, she doesn’t like it when I’m too heavy on my feet. I found her standing in the kitchen, hunched over unnaturally, hands gripping the counter edge, her rage-filled gaze trained on the bowl of mashed potatoes as if they’d personally offended her.
The sound of glass shattering makes me jump. Then another crash, louder; whatever that was sounded heavy. Furniture scrapes across the floor. Her screams are warped, twisted. Words are there but tangle together into something unrecognizable—something inhuman. Now and then, I make out my name, ‘bitch’, ‘ungrateful.’ My skin prickles with sweat, and my stomach rolls, hearing her call me such names over and over again.
What the fuck is happening?
Tears fall freely down my cheeks. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might fly out of my chest. I scan the room, looking for the phone. It’s always in here, but where is it? I slowly uncurl myself and move across the bed, looking at the floor. Nothing. I shift to the other side. Nothing. Pressing the page button isn’t an option. She will know I am looking for a phone if the page goes off and the phone is anywhere but this room. I push my hands under my pillows, brushing something hard and plastic, and relief washes over me. Yanking the item out, I bite back a sob when I realize it’s the remote for my television; at the same time, a crash shakes the house, shakes my bones; it feels like a wrecking ball hit us.
I lower myself slowly onto all fours, crawling through the room and looking for the phone. This is why Dad left. He couldn’t take this shit. He stayed close enough to see me every other weekend but not here. He’ll come get me. If I can just find the fucking phone. A slam against the door sends me shooting backward, my hands clutching for my heart. A slow, deliberate scrape runs down the wood of the door. I stop breathing. The sound is unmistakable, sending shivers up my spine and covering my skin in goosebumps—metal against wood—a knife.
“Open the door, Morgan.” Her voice is warped—deep, unrecognizable. Not human.
I freeze. As if she could sense my movement, so I can’t move.
There is a frantic series of pounds on the door. They alternate between what is obviously her fist and the metallic-sounding item.
“Open the fucking door, you little cunt!” She booms.
Silence. Her footsteps retreat down the hall. I start to exhale— BOOM —the door bows inward under a violent blow, and some of the books stacked on the chair wedged under the handle go scattering.
She’s using something huge to hit it.
Oh god, she’s going to break it down.
Our relationship has always been strained, but never to this level. Another blow sends me scrambling through my room.
BOOM
I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream threatening to come out. If she hears me, she’ll only try harder.
The phone is here. It has to be here. Closet, bed, dresser, nightstand. Nothing.
FUCKFUCKFUCK. I’m fucked.
Frustration takes over, and I knock everything off my desk onto the floor in one sweep.
BOOM
Among the chaos, I spot the phone. My hands shake violently as I turn it on. I feel a slight relief when I hear the dial tone. Thank god.
BOOM
The door starts to splinter, and I decide my dad can’t get here fast enough. I dial 911, and the operator’s voice comes over the line.
“911, What is your emergency?”
BOOM
I retreat to my closet. If she hears me on the phone, she will only work harder to get in, and I don’t know what is in her hands. A knife, a bat?
I curl back into a ball, knees to my chest, and open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Panic grips my throat.
Please. Someone help me.
The operator repeats herself, “Hello? 911, what is your emergency?”
BOOM
The sound frees my voice, and instead of being unable to speak, I work to keep myself from screaming out.
“I need police,” I whisper.
“What’s the address of the emergency?” The woman’s calm and reassuring voice starkly contrasts with the chaos tearing through my home.
My mind goes blank— I can’t remember my fucking address?
She urges me to take deep breaths, slow my heart, and focus on her voice. This momentary distraction allows my brain enough time to catch up, and I can relay my address and explain what is happening.
“Something is wrong with my mother. I’m scared. I think she will hurt me.”
BOOM
The woman asks me questions.
What happened?
When did this start?
Has it happened before?
Am I hurt?
BOOM
I hear the door come apart, and at the same time, I hear sirens. The chair blocking the door and its pile of makeshift weights clatters as my mother pushes her way into the room.
Oh god. What if they don’t make it to me before she does?
“Please!” I cry to the operator. “Tell them to hurry. I’m upstairs!”
It’s all I get out before I drop the receiver and reach for the closet handle. Holding it closed while she fights against me to get it open. Screaming incoherently the entire time.
My arms scream from the effort, muscles burning. My chest aches from sobbing, and tears stream down my face.
If I let go, I’ll die.
I don’t even realize that the screaming has stopped. That no one is trying to pull on the door. I sob and sob and desperately pull the handle with everything I have.
A quiet knock against it pulls me back to reality.
I register how silent the house is. My breath hiccups in my chest; my fingers are still wrapped around the door knob so tight that they ache.
She’s tricking me.
She’s standing right outside the door.
She’s waiting for me.
Again, there’s a knock, somewhat firmer, followed by a strong, distinctively male voice.
“This is Officer Davis with the Carrodock Regional Police.” He calls, “You are safe to open the door, miss.”
Stepping forward to ease the tension off my arms feels like a betrayal. They scream at me not to be so stupid, let go, or trust the voice.
Is she really gone?
She’s there.
The male voice repeats his call, telling me again that it is safe to open the door.
I release the handle but cannot bring myself to open it, pressing myself as far back into the closet as possible—if I could disappear into the wall, I would gladly do so. A second later, it slowly opens. The gray-haired man on the other side offers a sad smile and holds out his hand. I don’t know him, but I know in my heart that I am safe with him, so I take his hand and let him lead me out of the small closet.
My room is a scene from a horror movie. The door is smashed to pieces, and books and papers are everywhere. The bedding is shredded, and a large kitchen knife is haphazardly on the floor near the closet.
The officer puts a reassuring arm around my shoulder.
“We’ve already called your dad, honey.” He says in a low, slow voice. “He’ll be here in 15 minutes, and you can go home with him. Put your shoes on.” He suggests as he hands me a pair of Converse.
As he leads me through the house, I am gutted by the destruction. Dishes smashed everywhere—condiments sprayed on the walls. TV smashed. A knife protruding from a photo of me hung on the wall.
All destroyed.
Our home is in pieces.
Officer Davis leads me to his cruiser and opens the front door for me to sit, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. He asks a series of questions that I struggle to understand. I notice his soft demeanor and gray eyes, which crinkle as he smiles at me. I hear that his tone is even, steady, and calming, but still, his words don’t register. I stare blankly at the house I grew up in; even from here, the destruction inside is visible.
His hand on my shoulder grabs my attention, and I jump back from his touch, lifting my hands over my head to protect myself.
He takes a step back, offering both hands in front, allowing me to see that he isn’t armed with a weapon; he isn’t planning to hurt me. My heart beats wildly, the thunder of it deafening. I wrap my arms around myself, holding onto my biceps. I’m frozen and can’t stop shivering, but my hands feel clammy and hot.
Officer Davis leans down slightly, catching my gaze, before slowly rising. The noises in my head, the screams, the crashes, and the sound of my heart all fade away, and I can hear the sounds of the police radio, the paramedics whispering, and the neighbor talking on the phone, telling someone our business. The officer clears his throat.
“Morgan, do you know what set her off?” He asks, for at least the second time.
Shifting my eyes back to the house, I blink slowly.
My voice is hollow. “I told her I didn’t want mashed potatoes.”