12 days.
It had been twelve days of perfection. In the world I lived in, anyway. Duane hadn’t come home in almost two weeks. I knew it made me selfish, so I didn’t let my excitement show, but deep down, I felt like I could breathe. I felt like I could let my guard down. I looked over at Sara watching cartoons, plopped down right in front of the TV. She was smiling and mindlessly munching on saltine crackers. I didn’t have to keep as close of an eye on her with him gone. And I actually did my homework on the couch in the living room instead of retreating to my room as soon as I came home from school.
Even though his absence made things harder on Mama, it was nice not to worry about what he might do every second of the day. But Mama missed him, and I knew it. I didn’t understand it, but I was just a kid. I knew she wanted him around, although I couldn’t imagine why—other than the fact that she was left without a ride to and from work each day he was gone. That was hard on her. She had to leave an hour and a half earlier each morning just to get to work on time. I felt guilty that she had to walk almost three miles, but thankfully, since winter was coming to an end, the weather had been mild lately.
But it wasn’t just the rides that Mama missed—it was Duane. She hadn’t said much in the past few days. I caught her crying in her room, and I wanted to scream at her. But of course, I didn’t. I knew yelling at her would’ve probably made me a bad daughter, but I didn’t understand what she could possibly miss about him. So instead, I pretended I didn’t see her tears when she quickly wiped them away.
Today was a rare day off for Mama, and I could tell by the looks of the house that she had spent the day cleaning, even though she was taking a nap when we got home from school. Between working so many hours and pacing the floors throughout the night, waiting for him, she needed the rest, so we made sure to keep quiet as to not disturb her.
I finished the last of my social studies’ homework and put my worksheet back in my binder just as Mama emerged into the living room.
“Hey, Mama, did you have a good nap?” I stacked my books on the wooden coffee table, studying her face instead of the words in front of me.
“It was good.” The dark circles under her eyes told another story while her feet shuffled heavily along the wooden floor. The sadness lining her face was obvious. I wished she hated him as much as I did.
Maybe if she knew everything, she would.
Or maybe not.
Later that night as I stared at the ceiling, trying to will myself to sleep, I couldn’t shake the knot that thrashed around in my gut. Sara slept like a log beside me, as usual. I envied the way her mind had the ability to shut off and let go of the day. It didn’t matter how young I was, I’d always felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. And it made me angry—I wanted to be carefree like the other kids I knew. I wanted to go to birthday parties and have sleepovers. I never understood why we lived the way we did and found it very unfair.
Just a few moments later, the reminder for my anxiety pulled down the gravel driveway, and the squeaking sound of bad brakes resonated outside my window. A sinking feeling washed over me, knowing our temporary peace had come to a grinding halt.
God, please let him just go to sleep. Please.
I worried the thoughts I sent to the sky would fall on deaf ears, but I had to try. Prayer was the only hope I had.
My body jumped with the bang of the slamming side door. And I knew then, yet another prayer had gone unanswered. Muffled voices crept down the hall and through the thin walls starting in their bedroom before moving further away to the living room. The rickety box fan I turned on each night—usually just to drown out the sounds I didn’t want to hear—prevented me from understanding exactly what was said. But even without the context, the tone was clear. He’d come back in a horrible mood, and Mama was the target of his anger. Nothing Duane did made sense—she should be the angry one. He was the asshole who took off on his wife for weeks at a time, but somehow, it was always her fault. I wished she’d stand up to him. Or someone would, anyway. I convinced myself he was this way because no one had ever made him act differently; no one had challenged his behavior—no one had ever called his bluff.
My mother begged through the walls. I’d heard her cries more times than I could count, but this was different. At the sound of her ignored pleas, bile rose in my stomach, burning my throat on its way to my mouth. I pressed my palms over my ears, trying to shield myself from whatever came next. No scuffles came from the other side of my door, and I hadn’t heard anything break, but the deafening scream that suddenly erupted from Mama’s throat pierced my ears. My hands had done nothing to diminish the sounds or hide the pain.
Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, and my body trembled as the cries continued. I had no idea what he did to her, but whatever it was had been torture. I wanted to intervene, to stand up to him in her protection, straighten my spine and steel my backbone—but I was afraid and intimidated and weak. I wanted to help her, but I didn’t. Instead, I eased out of bed and quietly pulled my boots on. The echoes of anguish still reverberated through the paper-thin walls, and the evidence of my mama’s abuse could be heard outside the house. My body shook uncontrollably at my inability to help her. But I couldn’t listen for another second, I couldn’t hear another word. I knew I should stay here, but I couldn’t.
I had to get away.
I had to escape the horrific sounds.
I gave Sara a quick glance, but she was still sound asleep. Then I opened the window and slid out as fast as my body allowed. The moment my boots hit the ground, I ran. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing. But I had to escape. My legs led me into the woods, and my feet automatically took me to Jackson’s shed—my safe haven. I didn’t need a flashlight; I knew the way like the back of my hand.
But as I drew near, a flicker of light from inside caught my attention. The only other people who knew about this place were Jackson and Danny, and right now, finding either of them here would be fine with me. And even if part of me wanted to be alone, escaping her cries with their conversation would be a welcome reprieve. Being away from the torture chamber was by far the most important thing.
I flung myself through the makeshift door and fell to my knees before I even looked to see who I shared the space with. I crashed forward, my hands resting on the cold ground, and the urge to vomit consumed me. I heaved my empty stomach into the crisp, night air, but the only thing that passed my lips was the fog of my hot breath meeting the cold. I lost myself in the sea of deprecating tears, unable to stop the deluge. And though I couldn’t hear her sobs from here, the sound of my mama’s pain burned into my mind like a backdraft. I’d never escape them no matter how deep I went into the woods.
“Rach, are you okay? What happened?” Jackson moved closer to me, and then his large hand patted my back.
“I hate him. I hate him.” I sobbed, choking on the words I tried to get out.
“What’d he do?” He draped his leather jacket over my shoulders, and I realized then, I hadn’t even bothered to grab my coat on the way out the window.
“I can’t talk about it right now.” I wiped my mouth and bounced on my heels before placing my butt on the ground and pulling my knees to my chest.
I couldn’t even describe what took place—I didn’t know, but it was bad. I knew that. And I ran. I took off like a coward instead of trying to save my mother or even staying to make sure Sara was safe. I was no better than the man I hated—he took advantage of the defenseless, and I’d left the weak behind to deal with his wrath. It dawned on me I was weak, too. He scared me to death. But one of these days, I would find the courage to save them.
“We should kill him.” Jackson’s words caught my attention and jerked me out of my thoughts.
“What?” My voice was merely a whimper, hoarse and raspy. I must have misunderstood him.
“He doesn’t deserve to live after all the shit he’s done.” His eyes were cold and lifeless. There wasn’t an ounce of emotion present in his expression.
“That’s crazy.” I shook my head. If I were truthful, the thought of his death wasn’t a bad one.
My family could finally be free of the evil that loomed within Duane. But murdering someone would make me just as sinister as the person I sought to eliminate. And Jackson wasn’t evil—neither was I. We were just two kids tired of the bullshit hand life had dealt us.
“I know.” He plopped down on the ground next to me in silent resignation. His natural heat warmed my trembling body, and his presence comforted me. “I hate him, too. I hate what he does to you.” His voice grew softer, and he nudged me gently with his shoulder.
“Me too.” A stray tear rolled down my cheek, and I quickly wiped it away.
“One of these days, we’ll get away from here. I promise.” He draped his arm over my shoulder and pulled me to him. For the first time in ages, I felt a bit of…peace.
“We will.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
I would get away from here.
One of these days, I’d make my escape.