Chapter Seven
PIPER
They’re fighting again.
Again is one of those funny words that doesn’t quite fit the situation.
They’re always fighting. In the morning, a yelling match because the eggs aren’t cooked well.
In the afternoon, snarky and passive-aggressive comments about the same eggs.
At night, the real malice starts to show, while they’re toasted on liquor and drugs.
So, can I honestly say they’re fighting again when it seems they never stop in the first place?
“Get yourself up from that chair, bitch,” Dad’s voice tears through the hallways. He’s got that wild, unhinged tone people use right before things turn ugly. It almost doesn’t sound real.
“I don’t wanna,” Momma says. Then she giggles.
“I ain’t gonna tell you twice. Get the hell up,” he barks.
It’s unwise to intervene. I should stay hidden in my room and let them argue their way to sobriety. But I know how Dad gets, and if left unchecked, he’s going to hurt her again.
I step out of my bedroom and make my way down the hallway. Dad’s no longer shouting, instead repeating ‘get off that fucking table’ in a constant loop.
“I don’t wanna and you can’t make me,” Momma sings in a girlish taunt.
Dear Lord, why does she do this to herself?
I take the bend from the corridor into the living room door and I see them.
Dad’s shirtless, sweat dripping from his forehead, and Momma’s writhing atop stacks of hundred-dollar bills on the coffee table.
She’s wearing a thinning summer dress. It used to be blue, with bright red and yellow flowers, but time has worn it to a greying silver, and the flowers are near-invisible.
“Martha, I’m not gonna repeat myself.” Dad stands there with a white-knuckled fist at his side. It’s a good thing I came in when I did, or this could’ve progressed far worse.
“Momma,” I say, catching both of them off guard.
Dad jerks in surprise at my appearance, and Momma props herself up on her elbows.
“Hey, baby-girl,” she says.
“What’s going on here?” I ask.
I learned to deal with these situations in my youth. Neither of them is thinking straight and they’re doing whatever they can to piss off the other. Sometimes they need the voice of reason to set them straight about whatever trip they’re on. On most nights it has to be me.
“Your momma ain’t doing as she’s told,” Dad says. He bares his teeth in anger and annoyance.
“Momma, why don’t you come up off the table?” I say.
There’s a look of panic in her eyes, one filled with deep regret over what she’s doing. The same I’ve seen a thousand times before. Caught red-handed, flying off the handle and on a bender. It never ends up bothering her more than it ought to, I suppose, or she’d not be doing this twice weekly.
“But I’m having fun.” A charming smile accompanies her words.
“But let you and me go have fun somewhere else, huh?” I force a weak smile to my face. How I’d love it to be more sincere, but I doubt either of them will notice it doesn’t extend to my eyes.
Momma contemplates my words, before shaking her head. “Nah-uh,” she says.
One of the greatest problems with growing up too soon and throwing yourself into the world of hardcore drugs and bastard bikers is that you never truly grow up.
My momma’s a perfect example of this. Emotionally, she’s been stuck in her late teens or early twenties ever since she screwed the wrong guy and had a kid too soon.
“She always does this shit,” Dad spits. “She always finds a way to wiggle her way into my brain, and tear it to pieces like a cancer.” His face goes a darker shade of red from his mounting rage. “I ain’t having it no more, d’ya hear me?”
“Dad, relax,” I step into the living room. The room stinks of damp clothes left too long without drying.
“Relax? Me, relax?” His head is darting between Momma and me, unable to settle on either of us. His clenched fist only amplifies the terrifying look of anger on his face.
“Momma, you’ve gotta come with me now.” I extend my hands pleadingly.
If she doesn’t listen, this will end one way. The only way it always does: with Momma getting hurt.
Momma’s eyes linger on me with a vacant, slack-jawed stare. Though her outward appearance is unassuming, she’s deep in the throes of contemplation. She knows what comes next, if she doesn’t accept my hand. She knows that Dad’s going to slap her around.
But in a way, this is her way of standing up for herself.
She’s ignoring him, no matter the consequences, because she isn’t going to play a part in his tyrannical rule of this house.
This bullshit is why I want to leave this place.
Run away and never look back. It’s the reason I’m working at Callahan Tech, where the pay is good and my boss is… amazing.
What I’d give to be back at the office, sitting in his lap instead of being here.
“I’m not gonna,” Momma says. She sticks her tongue out at Dad and throws herself back into the stack of notes. She starts wriggling and giggling, surely understanding the obscenity, but just not giving a damn.
Dad stops trying to handle this situation with words and lunges forward. He grabs Momma by the shoulders and rips her off of the table. “I’ve had enough of your shit,” he says in a harrowing whisper while shaking a finger in front of her face.
He lifts a flat palm from her shoulder, while his other hand grabs a fistful of Momma’s dress. He’s about to hit her, and I can’t let him. Momma screams, doing her best to cover her face and recoil from the incoming blow.
“Dad, stop,” I yell, as I lunge forward.
I’m holding my hands out in the air as if to beg for peace and for this lunacy to end.
But my approach is met by the thick knuckles of Dad’s backhand striking my cheek.
The impact snaps my head sideways, and with the weight behind it, I’m sent hurtling back towards the door.
I stumble and my feet scrabble until I collapse on the ground.
“Piper?” Dad’s voice is weak and shaky. “Piper, are you okay?” he asks, releasing Mom and sprinting to my side. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. I’m so—” His apologetic words are almost lost to the low, constant ringing in my ears.
“Don’t touch me,” I yell, crawling backward away from him.
“Piper, I didn’t mean to,” he sounds sorrowful, but his eyes still show the same crazed look as they had while he was attacking Momma.
It’s my fault for getting involved, but how could I leave my helpless mother to suffer a horrible fate?
Dad drops into a crouch, reaching out to me, but he doesn’t get far before tumbling forward. I take his collapse as an opportunity to run. I get off my ass and start sprinting back through the doorway.
“Piper, no, come back,” Dad shouts as I go. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I’m sorry.”
It’s too late for sorry. This has been my life for as long as I can remember and there’s no way I can justify it any longer. I can’t fight to save this sinking ship, because neither Momma nor Dad want to be saved. They’re happy sailing to their own demise, and I should leave them to it.
I get back to my room and lock the door.
Three more weeks until my first paycheck.
Three more weeks until I can get out of here for good.