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Prologue
Damian
Age 10
“Stop!” Her blood-curdling scream pierces through my hearing. My pulse races violently, and my heart threatens to escape from within my chest. Covering my ears, I will myself to another place, another time, where neither of us are being hurt. If only it was that simple.
I hide in my closet as he hurts her. Again. Something heavy shatters in the living room, maybe a plate or a vase. I’m not sure what it is, but it causes my body to jerk, goosebumps prickling my face and arms.
“You fucking bitch, when I tell you to do something, you do it! Who the fuck do you think you are talking back to me? You did this to yourself, you cunt!”
“You’re hurting me Kevin, please get off me. I’ll do better, just please don’t hurt me!” There’s a loud crack, like skin on skin, which makes my mom cry louder. My heart hammers in my chest as cold drops of dread enter the pit of my stomach.
Whenever my father has fits of rage, Mom tells me to hide in my closet and not come out until it’s over. So, the main reason I’m in here is because she asked. At least that’s what I say to convince myself anyway. The real truth is, I’m a wimp. I can’t even protect my own mother.
My father’s an angry man who hurts her every chance he gets. He doesn’t even need a reason; he just creates one. I don’t know why she hasn’t left him yet. Maybe she’s afraid to walk away because he can find us, or maybe she’s not strong enough. I think it’s a little of both. I wish I had a lot of money, so I could take her away from this misery. We can go to another country and pretend to be other people. I always daydream of another life, but I always wake up here.
I don’t remember a time when he hasn’t made my mother bleed, whether with words or actions. He’s evil and I wish he were dead more often than is probably normal. But I’m not brave enough to kill him. I’m not brave enough to do anything. I do know one thing though; I don't ever want to become a soulless monster like him, and a monster is exactly what he is. A son shouldn’t hate his father with the amount of disdain I have for him. But how can I not? He may never hit me, but he hurts her practically every night. He’s got a psycho switch, and once it’s been flipped there’s no stopping him.
“Get up and fight me, bitch,” he yells.
“No, please enough.” A sob strangles in her throat. My lips quiver, and I swallow the nausea that has now made a home in my throat. I can’t imagine hurting someone I love like that.
I wonder if anyone will call the police this time. We live in a six-floor apartment building in Brooklyn, New York. There are many neighbors who are aware of my father’s temper, but they don’t get involved, they’d rather stay away from us. They only involve themselves if they believe someone’s dying. Isn’t it sad when people care so little about each other?
Last month, when the police were called, my father had bashed her head into a wall. That warranted calling the police, I guess. Yet, my mother howling like an injured animal? I guess not. I’m sure they’re sitting on their comfortable couches watching The Sopranos or some shit. Their TVs blaring, blocking out the sound of my mother’s screams as she begs for her life.
The last time, the police had left without an arrest. My mom told the officers she fell and refused to go to the hospital to get checked out. But at least he stopped hitting her. That night though, he made her sleep in the bedroom with him, even though she wanted to sleep on the couch. As I look back on that day, a painful realization hits me. She’ll never leave him. All the times I’ve begged her to pack our stuff and go has been for nothing.
Suddenly, the door to my room opens and the floorboards creak under a light thud of footsteps as someone approaches the closet. My heart beats like thunder and my throat muscles tighten. I shut my eyes as tightly as I can as though that’ll keep the monster away.
“Damian…” My mom appears through a large crack in the closet door and I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. She makes her way to me and stops short in front of the door. “Whatever you hear...” she pauses, catching her breath, “don’t come out. Please baby, just stay here.” My eyes well with unshed tears and I nod, unsure whether she can see me or not. “I love you my boy.”
I love you too, Mommy.
Seeing her this broken hurts me every time. She’s not the same mom who smiles while making breakfast, or the one who asks me about my day at school. I notice her hands trembling as she places her open palms against her chest. I take in her appearance, from the blood trickling out of the cut on her cheek, to the bruises in the shape of his fingers forming around her throat. Please, let him stop.
My father follows her in, his footsteps stomping heavily on the wood floor, his face as red as the blood spilling from her cheek.Leave her alone!
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, bitch?” he asks, approaching her. “We weren’t done talking!” I watch helplessly as he yanks her by the hair and drags her out of the room. Her whimpers grow distant. I hug my knees to my chest and silently cry for the both of us. I wish I was bigger. I bet I could’ve stopped him then. Why do I have to be so weak?
“You’re going to learn your fucking lesson about who's in charge here. It sure as fuck isn’t you.”
“Please, Kevin,” she begs, her voice splintering with tears.
“Shut up!” There's a loud thump on the ground like he just threw her down.Mommy. “You’re fucking garbage, and it’s time I dumped you in the trash.” His tone lashes out at her, as another crack lands across her skin. “You’re a good for nothing, lazy sack of shit. I can do so much better than you. You know that, right? You’re not even pretty to look at anymore. Do you hear me, bitch? I’m talkin’ to you!”
An eerie, unnatural silence follows for a few minutes.Maybe he stopped hurting her? Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by the loud boom of the front door slamming closed. I rub at the goosebumps pricking my skin, my knee bouncing rapidly.What the hell is going on?Did he leave?
Maybe she’s just in the bathroom cleaning her face. I’m sure that’s it. Yet, dread fills the pit of my stomach as I stand on shaky legs.
My feet take slow, hesitant steps out of my closet. “Mom? Mom are you there? I’m coming out, please answer me.”
She doesn’t respond. No one does.
I edge toward my bedroom door and gradually open it. Slowly walking out toward the small hallway, I pass the bathroom on my right. She isn’t inside. Fear swallows me whole, but I continue my path into the living room.
I look around, my gaze hazy and unfocused. “Mom, where are you?” My lips tremble and I feel warm liquid trickle down my legs. I spot her feet behind the sofa. My knees lock in place, and I take reluctant steps toward her. “Mommy?” There’s no answer. I’ve never hated silence so much.
