ENCW Flash Fiction

TW: Domestic Violence

She wobbles into the kitchen, her tiny feet pattering on the tiles. Her little blonde curls bounce in the sun streaming through the window. She was awoken by the loud crash of something breaking. She rubs her eyes and continues to follow the noise. A deep voice raises in anger as she peers around the corner.

“No, no, no,” the woman says, seeing the child enter the room.

But the voice keeps yelling and a thundering figure is standing between her and the three-year-old. The living room is wrecked: lamps broken, a whole in the wall, beer bottles scattered throughout.

“It’s okay. Momma’s coming,” she cooes at the child while inching towards the figure.

She runs past him and picks up the child holding her close to her body. She shushes and begs her to stop crying.

“It’s okay. We’re okay,” she repeated manically rocking back and forth with the child. They open the front door and sit on the porch steps. The thunderous figure comes to the door and barks through the screen.

“This isn’t over,” and that is enough to make the woman stand with the child and begin walking away.

This is my first memory of my father. You see, in this story, I am the child. And as my mother walked away from the house with my head resting on her shoulder, I will never forget the image of the man in the doorway. It’s not hard to forget because that was the first of many walks away from the house. You see, my mom, she couldn’t leave and still provide for me so she always came back to him. I spent most of my childhood hiding. Hiding because I was too afraid to face him. I couldn’t stand to see my mom take beating after beating and I was too afraid to say or do anything. But I’m not the same little girl he scared into the corner.

I slouch down in my car so as to not be seen and stare across the street at the house I grew up in. The hell hole of a place I was forced to call home. He’s in there. I grab a piece of gum from my purse and start frantically chewing.

I don’t know why I'm having doubts. This man has terrorized my mother and I for years. It wasn’t until I turned 18 that I was able to escape the verbal, mental, and eventually physical abuse.

“Honey, honey where are you?” I hear my mom through her shaky breaths. I sniffle in my box trying to not be heard. But she hears me and lifts the lid revealing my tear stained cheeks and letting the light into my box. She wipes my tears.

“It’s okay, we’re okay,” she says with a split lip and bruises up her arms.

I shake off the flashback and my anger returns. He needs to pay.

It’s time for him to feel the wrath. I grab the gun in my glove compartment and open the cylinder loading the round, take one more sip of my strawberry lemonade from Wendy’s and head towards the back door. I grab the handle and flashback immediately.

“You’ll never be free of me girl!” he slurred, grabbing my shirt and yanking me back. I reach for the doorknob but he reaches me first slamming me against the house.

I snap out of it feeling the burning tears return once again to my eyes. I’m done. I yank open the door and follow the all too familiar hall to the living room, gun in hand, rage in mind. I take a final breath to prepare myself but nothing could have prepared me for what I see. I round the corner and come face to face with not only my father, but my mother as well.

“Honey!” she gasps, but I don’t understand why she is here.

“What are you doing here? We left. I thought you left? Why are you here?”

“I’m so glad you are back. I knew you would come home,” he says.

“Shut up,” I demand pointing my revolver right at him. “This is not my home, this was never my home! And you, what are you doing here--

“I can explain,” she cuts me off, “Your father, he got in an accident honey. He was sick for a while and needed someone to take care of him.”

“Why would you take care of him? He never took care of us.”

She hesitated before sighing out,

“He lost his memory,”

My blood ran cold. I begin to shake and feel the gun slip between my fingers and drop to the ground.

Years. I have spent years hiding from and trying to survive this man. Years watching him hurt my mom, years trying to free us both. Only for her to be stuck once again. If anyone should forget, it's me. I want to forget. Forget the words you said to me, forget the things you did to me, and Momma. How is it that you get to not remember and you get to be happy with momma and I am alone. Alone and left with the flashbacks and trauma. I want to forget. I bend over, pick up the gun, and pull the trigger.