I push to stand and search the room, my left eye completely dark and my right clouded by blood. My arm and leg hurt so bad, but I have to help Mama.
“Randy, stop! No! Please—“ My dad winds up and punches my mama in the face, knocks her onto the couch then pins her down. “Randy, no!”
“Shut up, bitch!” he slurs, then wraps his hands around her throat.
No.
No, please.
He can’t do that to Mama, he can’t hurt her like that. I have to help her, have to protect my mama the way she always protects me.
I search the floor and my good eye finds my truck—the cast iron dump truck—in the middle of the floor. I zig zag toward it, my left arm hanging limp at my side so I grab it with my right, and when I’m close enough, I lift it as high as I can and bring it down on the back of my dad’s neck with a thud.
“Shit!” he grumbles as he falls forward. “You little bastard.”
“Go, Zak!” Mama yells, her pretty face all bloody and full of fear. “Run! Run, baby! Go!”
I shake my head and drop my truck just as my dad turns, his dark blue eyes raging. He grabs onto the coffee table and pushes to his feet, staggering toward me with anger burning in his stare.
“You fucked up, boy. Fucked up for the last time.” He kicks at my truck as he stumbles around, walking toward me on unsteady feet as I start backing down the hall.
“Go, baby! Run!”
So, I do.
I spin around and start running toward my room, hurry inside and push my dresser in front of the door. It won’t keep him out, but it’ll slow him down. My dad’s either too drunk to realize he can slide it out of the way or he’s too angry to think right, so I should be able to hide by the time he gets in.
Fear and pain driving every move, I hurry to my closet and crawl under my clothes, trying to hide myself under what few there are, then peer between the slats in the door.
“Zak!” My dad thunders down the hall, bouncing off the walls until he’s at the door. “Zak! C’mere you little bastard!”
I grab a hanger and shrink into a ball, my arm on fire from the pain, my left eye still dark and unable to see. My heart is beating in my ears and my fear is making my whole body shake.
“Zak!” The door of my tiny bedroom slams open and comes off at the hinges and my dad shoves the dresser out of the way. “You’re mine, boy!”
A scream comes tearing down the hall after him, Mama’s battle cry fierce and loud as Dad storms into the room, and no matter how much blood is streaming down my face, I still see my mama run in and hit my dad with the toy dump truck.
He lurches forward as she yells, “Stay away from my baby!” Then Mama hits him again, her bright green eyes wild through the swelling and bruises, her dark red hair a mess as she jumps on his back.
Dad reaches behind him and yanks her off, tosses her on my bed then spins to face her. “You’re dead, Peg.” He staggers toward her, blood pouring from his dark black hair. “You’re fucking dead, you worthless bitch!”
Everything that happens next happens so fast my cloudy mind can barely process it.
Mama on her feet.
Dad shouting.
Fighting.
Then gunshots ring out in my tiny bedroom before two sickening thuds land on the cold hard floor and everything goes eerily silent.
Frozen by fear, I don’t move, I don’t breathe.
I just wait for Mama to open the closet, take me in her arms and tell me everything is going to be ok like she always does. Mama is going to save me, tell me she loves me and that everything is going to be ok.
But Mama never opens the door.
And nothing is ever ok again.
