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Scooping up more chicken and gravy out of the steaming pot, I pour it over the biscuits on his plate, and the smell makes my mouth water.
A thump sounds out from the living room.
“You couldn’t just go into the store yesterday and get what he wanted, could you? You knew wewouldn’t have time today. He wanted steak, so now he’s going to spend the night angry,” my mom snaps.
Forcing out a breath, I try to calm my nerves. Arguing with her won’t do any good, and neither will reminding her that Andrew is always angry.
Living here never gets easier.
Beer sloshes in the bottle the closer we get. Tonight’s going to be bad. I can feel it.
Andrew is on the sofa watching an old football game with his table tray waiting in front of him.
My mom sets his food down first, and his beer follows. I step away quickly.
Maybe it won’t be so bad?
A loud crash proves me wrong.
“Ahh,” Mom and I scream together, jumping back.
Open-mouthed, I take in the mess. He’s thrown the whole table, food and all, across the room. Chicken and vegetables drip down the wall, and shards of plate litter the carpet.
“It’s fucking cold!” he roars.
“It just cooked,” I argue, barely above a whisper, but it was loud enough.
Andrew’s head snaps around to where we both stand. Mom slaps a hand over her mouth as if to show it wasn’t her.
“What did you just say?” he growls.
“It just cooked,” I repeat shakily but louder.
His face shifts.There’s that look again.
I know what’s coming, so I do the only thing I can. Run.
Turning, I make a break for the back door. I just need to make it through the kitchen. Dropping low as I pass the front door, I snatch up my large gym bag that I’d previously stashed for easy access and keep moving. Every second counts. At five-eleven, Andrew is bigger and stronger than me but not quicker.
My heart pounds, punching to get out of my chest. I’m almost there.
Panting, I grab at the bowl of biscuits managing to clutch two just as the bowl slips off the side. I shove them in my mouth as I rush the last few steps, twist the lock, and slide the back door open.
Cold air hits my face and bare arms but the sound of ceramic crunching under heavy feet propels me forward into the dark yard.
Light from the house shines over the path, but that means he can see me too.
Pulling the biscuits out of my mouth, I gasp for more air.
“Fucking bitch! Someone needs to teach you a fucking lesson,” Andrew screams after me.
Crossing over into the tree line, I don’t look back.
Twigs, leaves, and debris crack under my sneakers. I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for always having cold feet. It’s the reason I wear shoes in the house.
I keep running, pushing my body forward until all house lights are gone, no one is nearby, and the onlything illuminating the forest around me is the night sky.
As soon as my feet slow, the adrenaline hits me differently. My body shakes. Fear and shock entwine, then flow through my body.
