I hear a slap, and then there’s silence.
My heartbeat accelerates to an unhealthy pace as I open the door, freezing when I see my dad on top of my mom, his hands around her throat.
He’s so zoned out that he doesn’t hear me come in, or when I grab one of his golf clubs from his trolley. I don’t wait for a second to swing the metal at his head, knocking him over.
Mom gasps for air at the same time as saying my name. Coughing, she rolls onto her side to try to fill her lungs while I grip the golf club tighter and point it at my dad. It’s shaking, fucking trembling, and he has blood staining his hair.
“You,” he starts, pressing his palm to his head, bringing it away to see the blood staining his hand. “You fucking little shit!”
Dropping the club, I turn to run, my heart in my throat, but he catches my hood and swings me to the side, both choking me and hitting my head against the wall. The knee connecting to my jaw knocks me back, and I don’t have a chance to feel any of the pain because he’s fisting my hair and dragging me across the floorboards.
I kick, trying to tear into the skin of his hand with my blunt nails, but he’s too strong. I’m too weak to save my mom. She’s lying on her front, tears in her eyes as she watches my dad pull me right into the kitchen.
Without letting go of my hair, he grabs a knife from the block, and it’s enough to slap me into panic mode, and I fight back against him. I twist beneath him, kicking at his shins, managing to hit him between the legs to make him release my hair.
And I run again.
He catches up, slamming the front door when I pull the handle, and something like burning hot pain slices my hip. My dad doesn’t care that he just slashed me; he’s chasing me up the stairs. I jump over my mom, helpless on the floor.
Terrified. Frozen in place as her husband chases her only son. She’s not even trying to stop him from hurting me.
I get to my room, slam the door, and attempt to drag my dresser in front of it. Being so thin and weak, I barely nudge it from the ground before I hear his heavy footfalls, yelling, mocking me that I’m a little pussy who needs to be taught a lesson.
I pull harder, thankful the dresser shifts with the terrified adrenaline rushing in my veins. I twist and turn once I block the door, looking for a weapon. My window doesn’t open, and I’m not strong enough to smash it. I’m trapped.
I’m gonna die.
Gulping down bile when I touch my side and see blood on my palm, my bottom lip trembles. My dad bangs against the door, and my body jolts, my heart stopping, tears spilling down my cheeks.
This is it. He’s going to stab me, remove me from the equation so he can have all of Mom’s attention. He never loved me anyway. I was always in the way, a nuisance, the weirdo child who couldn’t hold down a friendship or learn things as easily as other kids. I wasn’t like his friends’ kids either. He’ll be glad to get me out of the way.
Maybe they’ll have another child who isn’t like me.
Mom’s voice is in my head, begging me to go to my hiding spot. There’s another bang on the door, moving my dresser forward, and it’s enough to rocket me toward my bed, scurrying under it. I push myself right to the other side, planted against the wall, and try to hide myself with the bags of used toys and large clothes Mom is waiting for me to fit into.
I jolt and freeze, holding my breath as the dresser tips over, and the door swings open. I can’t see him through all the stuff hiding me, but I can hear him walking into the middle of the room.
“Cole?” He says my name through his teeth, footsteps going to my window. “I’m sorry, Cole. I shouldn’t have hurt you.”
I grit my teeth so hard, my jaw hurts, and more tears threaten to slip free as a demonic laugh sounds around the room. “Come out so I can see where you’re hurt,” he drawls, pulling open my wardrobe and slamming it harshly, showing his anger. “Where the fuck are you?”
He hums to himself, then I flinch as something smashes on my wall. The only thing it could be is the picture of me and my mom that sat next to my bed. The version of my mother I miss. The version who vowed to protect me, love me, care for me. Not this new version who forgets to make sure there’s food in the house or to unlock the door while she’s gone for two days with Dad.
He steps on the glass, getting closer. Closer. Until I can see between bags that he’s kneeling next to my bed, and I stop breathing, shaking, fucking trembling as he leans down.
He has blood on his cheek from the dripping wound I made on the side of his head. Good, I hope it hurts nearly a fraction of what you put me and Mom through.
“I can see you.”
It’s the last thing I hear before he grabs my leg and drags me out from under the bed.
“Dad, please!” I scream as he drags me over the glass from the smashed picture, little cuts on my back making me wince. He grabs my jaw painfully, forcing me to look up at him, but before he can speak, I say, “Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dad, please.”
He mocks me with a baby voice. “Dad. Please. Sorry. Don’t. Please. The same tune, different fucking day with you.” His hold grows painful, and I think my jaw might dislocate or snap when he brings the knife to my cheek. “Why can’t you be normal? Why do I need to be stuck with a defective kid?”
“I’m not,” I try to say. “I am normal.”
He laughs in my face and lets go of me, causing me to fall back on the glass, cutting my palm. It hurts, but not as much as my hip. It’s bleeding through my clothes from the wound.
