The screaming the crying, why did they have to put me through this! I am an 11-year old kid I should be playing outside, eating ice cream, and worrying about homework, not sitting up at night listening to you fight. I have to tell someone, anyone, why is this happening to me? Two months ago I came home and my mom was sobbing on the kitchen floor, her clothes, a tank top, and a pair of shorts; Revealed the black, blue, and yellow bruises, covering her body. She was clutching her throat that had deep, bright red scratches, that looked like they had been made by a knife. She was barely breathing and began to wheeze. I kept asking her over and over again what was wrong. I tried to pick up the phone to call my father, but she screamed at me, “ No! Don’t call your father it will make it worse!”
      
I didn’t know what she meant at the time, but I know now. My father abuses my mother. This made me sick to my stomach, the father that I trusted, and loved, and cared for, is a monster that gives my mom black eyes and bruises that stay for weeks at a time. When my mother can’t get out of bed I know what had happened the night before. Those are the nights that I stay up till the morning hours, listening to the screaming and yelling.

I go into the kitchen, no one is down stairs. I began to think to myself,  “This house. This house is where monsters have control and nightmares, become reality.” I search for the evidence left behind from last night, a broken vase on the coffee table, the remains of a glass, and the weapon, an old leather belt. I had seen this belt before my dad had worn it many times, how could a men’s accessory be used to cause a woman such harm? I ignore the scene and make myself breakfast before I have to go to school. As I take my first bite I hear a crunch and it wasn’t made by the bread I was holding. My father was coming downstairs and had stepped on a shard of the glass. He quickly eyed the belt laying across one of the dining room chairs and snatched it up. Then, he came into the kitchen with the belt in his back pocket. After he made his coffee he sat down across the table from me.

He asked the usual questions, “What are you doing at school today? Did you finish your homework? Any tests?” After answering the questions with no thought, there was a distinct silence. I held my fists in balls, so fearful that he might strike me with the belt he held in his pocket. With hesitation, I asked the one question I knew not to ask, “What happened last night?” That is one mistake I will never make again. “ The glass, the belt? You think I don’t know?” It seems that school is the only place I am free to ask questions. 
 
???

Mom.
For every word he speaks I dig a deeper hole in the pile of fear, hiding within my soul.
Melany shouldn’t be here. I tried to take her away, but he said if I did anything with her she would be his next victim. I shouldn’t be here, she shouldn’t be here. I need help.
    
  It’s happening, again. This time in my stomach, I shriek with the pain. He’s pressing something hot, but thank God, dull into my abdomen. I don’t move, even though the burning sensation is excruciating, I’m exhausted. I know too, that if I let him continue it won’t be as painful, and torturous. “ This is for what you told Melany, she knows.” Moments later, I look up and see that no one is there, cautiously I look at my stomach, the skin is fiery red and moist looking. A second-degree burn. I try to cool it with the cold water I find in a cup next to the bed. I wince at the agony and try to cover it with my shirt. I lay back down, and try to fall asleep, hoping that when I wake up the burn will be less painful.

???

I couldn’t take it anymore, this had to stop. My mom had come down to dinner tonight, but she didn’t cook, we ordered a pizza. Dinner was very quiet, Mom and Dad didn’t look at each other, and I had to start all of the conversation. After dinner was over with I went up to my room while mom and dad cleaned up. I started to read my book, but I was interrupted by a crash sound that came from downstairs. It was shortly followed by shouting and shrieking, it was happening again. This time, I didn’t contain myself, I burst out of my bedroom and ran downstairs. Mom was on the floor and Dad was ready to slam his fist into her side.
I shouted, “ STOP, DON’T HIT MOM!” He shouted back at me,“GO TO YOUR ROOM!” he paused, then spoke again,“NOW!”  I didn’t move, so he grabbed my wrist, twisted it backward, and threw me against the wall. I ran up to my room clutching my wrist and crying. Then, dove straight into my bed. The pain wasn’t bad, it was what he did, how could he? He is my father, and I’m his daughter. Slowly. Slowly. I started to understand, and then cried myself asleep.

Sure that it was injured, I wrapped my wrist up with athletic foam to keep it from moving around. When I went downstairs to catch the bus it was eerily quiet, so I grabbed my bookbag and bolted for the front door. Slamming my wrist in the process, I let out an “ouch” louder than expected and started to hear footsteps. I twisted the doorknob, ever so quietly and rushed out the door, closing it behind me. Then, with awkward footsteps, I made it to the bus stop. There I met Sophia, and Callie, my best friends, who immediately followed with questions, “ What happened to your wrist?” “Did you finish your English report?” “Did you bring Gym clothes?” With all that’s been happening at home, I never get a chance to do my homework. I forget the little things, like bringing new Gym clothes, and making excuses about why I was late to class.  I told them I had fallen on my wrist while I was doing a front handspring, at gymnastics practice, which I haven’t been to in months.

I go to school and pretend, pretend that nothing has happened. Pretend that my life, my family, is normal. It’s if I’m playing make believe like I did when I was 6. Make believe, is school. The reality is home. Knowing this makes me relieved, relieved that for 7 hours Monday to Friday I get to be in a fairy tale. Where monsters sleep, and fairies arise, a fairy tale so good you would want a sequel.
???

Dad.
They think I do this for fun, I don’t. It happened to me, everyone has to have a turn. She deserves it, so does Melaney, but I don’t want her to tell the school. No one knows how it feels to have your father kick you in the side when you're only 6. My mom took me to a shelter, to get away from him but he followed us and gave me one message, which I received. “They deserve it, they all do.” I will relay that message to Melaney one day when she understands it.

2 million injuries and 1,300 deaths, from people like me. I’m proud, the number has risen since my father was in control, he should know. He does know, he always knows, because he created the monsters. The monsters that hurt little boys and girls. The monsters that hurt the women we care(d) for.

???

The lights, the sounds, the cars. The lights, the sounds, the cars. The lights, the sounds, the cars. These are the things I can process. The lights, the sounds, the cars. The lights, the sounds, the cars. The people yelling, yelling at someone, or was it, one person? This confused me, this made me scream. I focus again, the lights, the sounds, the cars. The lights, the sounds, the cars.

I hear a quiet, soft voice, “Hey there. Are you ok? Here, let me help you up.” I shake my head hard and hit it on the side of a flower pot. I scream again, “Help, Help, Someone help me!”
She took me in her arms. Out of instinct I squirmed and flailed my arms, knowing it would be hard to contain me, she squeezed my arms tight against my side. I felt suffocated. Then, she started to hum I settled down, and let my body be comforted in her arms. Now I focus on a new set of words, blue, soft, nice. I repeat those words out loud several times. As the woman continues rocking me back and forth in her comforting arms.

I wake up in a strange place. It’s not a hospital, and it’s not home. I see a familiar looking face. Is it the same woman that held me until I slept? I can’t tell. Everything looks fuzzy, I try to stand up from the chair, I immediately fall forward on my chest. Three people wearing all blue rush toward me, one voice is quiet and soft like the woman’s earlier. The other two voices belong to two men, both voices were deep and full. I heard the woman's voice, “ Jeffrey, Liam, stay back. I’ve got this.” I heard the humming again, but this time, I didn’t fall asleep. I asked, “ Can I get up?” She grabbed my arms, then with some force lifted me up on my feet, and sat me back down in the chair.  I sat in that chair while she hummed, her soft, sweet melody.

    
A week went by, and a policewoman took me home every day to gradually collect my clothes and some necessities. I stayed at sunny days home for girls, they told me that I was safe there and that they helpers were nice. We had chores, and we had to eat gross food, they never made what I wanted. They made me sleep with three other girls in a tight, cramped bedroom. In the morning, I would put on what the social worker gave me, a sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. Then, I would wait for Meghan by the door.  Meghan made me feel safe, Meghan was the only one I trusted. Megan was the woman who hummed. She took me to my house, and afterward we would go to visit my mother. Every time we visited her I cried. “Why?” I ask Meghan, “Why did he do this to her?” I get the same answer every time, “Your father is very sick, but you don’t need to worry, he is getting the help he needs.” 

???

Dad.
They think they can make me stay here and listen to these stupid people talk, the stupid people wearing white coats, that think they know everything. Well, they don’t! They don’t know that I’m going to pretend to listen and understand them; to “get better” so I can get out of this prison. So, I can see Melaney and give her the message. The message that will help her understand.

Make that 1,301 deaths.  I did what I had to do, and my father would be proud.

???

My father is sick, they whisper. My father killed my mother, they whisper.
Today is when I will see my mother. This will be the first time I see her face and her body, not in a metal box. This will be the first time I will see her since the day with the loud noises, the red and blue lights, and the long, cylinder shaped bag.

I go to my mother’s funeral.

I cry, and I continue to cry until I can finally breathe again. Until I can finally see the bright light that guides me into my future. The future my mother wanted me to have.  The future without body bags, sirens, and bruises. When I begin to see what the future is made up of the woman that hums, comforts me.