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I punch Dad in the face in a blind rage, our small house filled with the sounds of my fury. Blood spurts from his nose and mouth. His brown eyes are dark with anger when he looks back up at me.
“You’re dead, Ezra,” he growls before punching me in the nose. I rear back and hold a hand to my now bleeding nose. Tears start to burn my eyes, but I’ll be damned if I let them fall. I’ll never give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
Taking advantage of my being distracted, he pushes me off him and stands back up. He goes to kick me in the stomach, but I get up quickly and block his blow. I’m just about to land another punch to his face when he feints left—or maybe he’s just so drunk he sways on his feet—and I fall against the stove again. The handle gets stuck under me and tips over, causing it to spill the sauce all over my back. I scream and try to move away, try to rip my shirt off before I’m burned, but Dad keeps me in place.
Despite being drunk, he’s surprisingly strong.
He punches me in the face again, then in the stomach, before kicking me in the balls. I gag and fall back down to the floor, pain lancing through my entire body. Mom is in the corner crying and shaking, begging Dad to leave me alone.
“Dinner was almost ready, David!” she cries, but he doesn’t listen.
Dad wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes as hard as he can. Mom grabs his wrists in an attempt to pry his hands from my neck, but as soon as she touches him, he strikes her across the face.
One of the bottom cabinets is partially open, and she hits her temple against the corner of it as she falls to the floor. I wait for the steady rise and fall of her chest to let me know she’s still alive, but it never comes. I try to scream, try to break myself free, but he’s got me locked in place. The wildness in his eyes lets me know he’s not here anymore, and he won’t stop until I’ve stopped breathing, too.
Fucking fight, Ezra.
Pushing myself to my knees, I lunge into Dad, knocking him to the floor again. This time, I have the upper hand.
Remembering I have a knife in my pocket, I whip it out and slash at his face, watching as the blood starts pouring from the deep cut.
“Fuck—AAAHHH!” he bellows, swinging on me again, but I cut into his nose and lips. He starts crying and begging me to stop, but I barely hear him. All I hear are my mother’s cries as she begged him to stop hurting her, her pleading with him to end his other relationship and just be satisfied with her. Withus.
I look at her broken, unconscious body lying next to me, and I’m a man possessed.
Instead of slashing, I start stabbing.
Face.
Chest.
Arms and hands.
Thighs and legs.
I stab and I cut and I dig deeper and deeper until his wet, rasping cough brings me back to the present.
He’s looking up at me with tears in his eyes. “Who’s the pussy, now?” I taunt, voice devoid of emotion. “I told you I would kill you.”
His lips move as he tries to say something, but then he goes still. I touch my fingers to his pulse points, feeling for movement, but there’s nothing.
Sliding off him, I go to my mother and cradle her in my arms. I put my cheek against her nose, hoping beyond hope that she’ll magically start breathing again, but she’s gone.
No. This isn’t how this is supposed to end. I’ve spent years daydreaming about the death of my father and how I’d go about actually executing it, but I didn’t think I would lose my mother at the same time.
Gently, I lay her back on the floor and start CPR. I don’t care that she’s not breathing; I’ve read stories of people coming back to life. If I can just pump enough oxygen into her, she could still have a chance.
I start compressions with rescue breaths. The only experience I have is from school, so I’m not even sure I’m doing it right. I can’t stop, though. I have to save her. She can’t die like this. We’ve come too far and gone through way too much for her life to end this soon.
After thirty minutes, it’s clear to me that she’s not coming back. I pick her up again, walk her into the living room, and lay her down on the couch. I kneel next to her body, take her hand in mine, and cry. I cry like I’ve never cried before. I’m so deeply affected by her death that I’m not sure I even feel like living now.
I go back into the kitchen and take the knife out of Dad’s chest, fully prepared to slit my throat with it, but I can’t. Every time I raise the blade to my neck, something stops me.Shestops me. I feel her presence here with me, keeping me from killing myself.
“Just let me go,” I say through gritted teeth, furious tears burning my eyes and running down my face. “I want to be with you.”
I try again.
And again.
