Defining Moments

I can’t remember what had made him so angry.

Maybe it was the fact that I had come home late again. Maybe because I hadn’t called to let him know where I was. Maybe I had said something that I shouldn’t have. I don’t know.

I remember walking inside and seeing him in the hallway. He might have been drunk. He might have been on drugs again. He might have been doing both. Before I knew it he was screaming. I screamed back. I always did.

I remember running up the stairs.

I remember slamming my door, but not before catching a glimpse of his face as he stormed after me. Fury. Loss of control.

I pulled my dresser over and shoved it against the door. He screamed. I screamed back.

I could hear my sister crying in the room down the hall. No words, just frightened noises.

“Open the fucking door!”

There was a sharp crack as the door jamb began to splinter. I grabbed everything I could; my mattress, my bookshelf, a basket full of clothes. I piled them against the white, wooden barrier between myself and a man that wanted nothing more than to hurt me. I screamed. He screamed back.

And then the noise stopped. All I could hear were the tired sobs of my sister.

That frightened me more than anything.

After a few moments, I heard him stomp back down the stairs. The front door slammed.

There was an immense pounding in my head as I struggled to think coherently. Where is he going? I imagined gun shots blasting through my bedroom door. I imagined my sister’s screams.  I imagined the news, the morning after they found me. I imagined my mother, who wouldn’t find out for days. Weeks maybe.

I grabbed a plastic shopping bag that had been sitting on my floor, and I puked. It was nothing but bile. My stomach was empty.

I thought about leaving, but I knew he could be coming back any time. He could be waiting outside.

We didn’t have a phone; we had failed to pay the bill months ago. There was no way I could call for help. I did the only thing I could do. I waited, and I listened.

Hours passed. My thoughts were blurred and fragmented. I felt nauseous, and it seemed like my head would explode.

I felt myself beginning to drift off to sleep, but I jerked awake just as the sun began to rise.

I stood up, my back in pain from sleeping against the pile of wood, cloth, paper and plastic at my door. 

I listened.

I’m not sure how long I spent listening. I hadn’t heard him come back the night before; but then, I been asleep for at least an hour. As quietly as I could, I began to shift my possessions so that I could get out of my bedroom. It took what seemed like hours. Every creak of wood or crinkle of plastic made me cringe.

Finally, I was able to open the door and tiptoe down the stairs. I made sure to walk along the very edges of the steps, so that they wouldn’t squeak. My heart was pounding.

I made it out the front door. I took a quick, panic-filled gaze around to make sure he wasn’t somewhere near me.

And then I ran.

School was only about a mile and a half away. I ran until I couldn’t breath, then I walked, my body doubled over with lack of breath. The air was harsh, damp. The sky was a dull gray. I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him running after me. But he never came.

I made it to school just before the busses arrived. There were already a few people there-- the people who lived close by and walked to school.

As I walked toward the entrance, I caught my reflection in the glass door. My eyes were swollen, and my hair was damp with sweat and rain.

I trudged down the halls, not looking at anyone as I made my way past them. Someone called out to me, but I kept walking forward until I reached the classroom I was looking for.

Inside, Ms. McCray was preparing for her morning class. She looked up at me as I walked in.

“Something happened,” I heard myself say, “I can’t stay there anymore.”

And just like that, it was over.