The Sprout

Short Story: I Escaped

Posted by RoLouG from Cardiff - Published on 07/06/2010 at 12:17
4 comments » - Tagged as Creative Writing, Health, People

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This short story has been entered in theSprout Short Story Competition.

"No!" she screams. He's coming toward me now, fist raised. I can taste blood, as it runs from my nose to my lip. That one hurt a lot. But I've seen him do worse. At least it doesn't feel like he's broken my nose.

This time.

He lunges at me but I'm too quick. I duck away from his arm as he aims for my face again.

I catch a fleeting glimpse of my mother, as I run for the door. She's cowered in the corner, her face sporting a cut across her pale cheek. Her eyes are wild, terrified. But it's not for her. She's scared for me.

I'm scared for me too.

Sometimes I feel like it's our fault. That's what he always makes me think, when he's apologised. "I'm terribly sorry," he'll say when he's sober tomorrow "I won't do it again".

But as he says this, his ice-blue eyes glint, and it's almost as if he's shouting at me "as long as you don't provoke me." Sadly it doesn't take much to do that. Especially these days.

He'd had a few at work, I was pretty sure. He must keep a bottle of whisky or two in his desk. He only got home at six; there was no time for him to get to the pub.

It's almost seven now. He's been at it for almost half an hour now. First it was mum, and now me. Was it my fault this time? Maybe, but not really. I was just defending my mother. Nothing gave him the right to start on her.

She'd been experimenting with a new meal. I'd been helping her. It had been fun, chatting as we'd stirred, fried and occasionally sampled. Then the door slammed, and he stormed into the room.

The cosy happiness that had filled it just seconds before fizzled out slowly. He yelled at us to put his dinner on the table. "I've had a very hard day, earning the wage that runs this family. I don't want to be put in a bad mood". It wasn't quite ready, and we were both scared. He could snap out at any moment.

But then disaster struck as my mother carried the warm plates, luckily empty, to the table. She tripped in her hurry and dropped them. They crashed to the floor. I stayed quite still, dreading his reaction.

He leapt up and smacked her hard across the face. She cried out in pain as she fell against the wall, and onto the floor. He began to kick her stomach, her chest, he was about to kick her face when I snapped.

How dare he? How dare he suck the happiness from a room, simply with his presence? How dare he kick my beautiful mother, until she was barely recognisable from her bruises? I knew one thing however. I couldn't let him kick her face.

I don't know what came over me, as I kicked him in the shins. I forgot to be scared. All I knew was the terrible rage that had come over me as he kicked her. It worked, he left her alone. I hadn't thought of what was bound to happen next as he turned to face me. He walloped me in the face. I fell into the table, seeing stars.

So here I am, running from this man I despise so much. I stopped seeing him as my father, stopped loving him a long time ago.

I grab my jacket as I run out the front door. It's cold but that's not why I need it. I need what I'm sure I left in the pocket when I came home from school only three hours earlier.

I feel sick at the thought of leaving my mother in there alone with him. But I had to leave. I wouldn't be able to make the call otherwise. I punch the numbers into my mobile. "Police please," I choke. I speak quickly as I sit sown on the wall, two streets away from our ground-floor flat.

The car arrives ten minutes later. We're lucky we live just a short drive from the police station. The car picks me up as it drives past. It arrives, thanks to some brief directions, outside our flat. The door opens when they knock. The policemen enter.

They leave again, ten minutes later, and between them, struggling against the handcuffs they have put on his wrists is my father. He sees me, and shouts "I'll get you, you little slut! They'll let me out some day, and when they do..." I don't hear the rest. For one thing, they have put him in the car, and I can't hear him anymore. And also my mother, horribly bruised has come outside.

I run over to her, she looks as though she is in pain just from standing. She throws her arms around me, crying. I feel my eyes tear up as well. "My brave little girl" she whispers.

We're lucky, I think from her bruised arms, watching them drive away with him. Not everyone escapes the type of abuse we have suffered over the past six years.

We escaped.

For information on dealing with domestic violence please click here. And remember you can always talk to Meic.

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