Page 50 of Backstroke

Fallon

The screams wake mefirst. I shuffle out of bed, pressing my ear against the bedroom door, my heart pounding in my chest. The scuffling downstairs is unmistakable, but it’s my mother’s frightened voice that propels me into action. I had thought long and hard the last time this happened, and I knew it had to be me who stopped him. My fingers tremble as I grab my phone from the bed where I had fallen asleep reading. It’s two o’clock in the morning, which means he’s probably drunk out of his mind.

“Micah, get off me!” she wails, her voice breaking. A loud crash follows. I can’t let any more minutes tick by. If he doesn’t get caught this time, he’ll kill me. I know it. My finger hovers over the green call button as more screams echo from downstairs.

I press the button. “911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asks, their voice calm and professional.

“My mom… my mom is being attacked!” I stammer, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Okay, I need you to stay calm. What’s the address of the emergency?” the operator continues.

“2012 Wellington Street,” I reply, my voice shaking.

“Is the attacker still there?” the operator asks.

“Y-yes, it’s my father. He’s drunk and he’s hurting her,” I whisper, my heart racing.

“Are there any weapons involved?” the operator inquires.

“I don’t know because I’m upstairs. He’s very violent.” The last bit was barely audible through my quivering voice.

“Alright, help is on the way. Stay on the line with me. Can you get to a safe place?” the operator asks.

“I have to go help her,” I say, my voice firm despite the fear coursing through me. I can hear her pleas for me to stay hidden, but I keep the call connected and slip the phone in my pajama pocket. If I wait until someone comes, it might be too late.

Fear snakes up my body, making my hand tremble as it grips the doorknob. I open it slowly, the creak of the hinges sounding like a thunderclap in the silent house. My heart races as I step into the hallway, the dim light casting long shadows that seem to reach out and grab at me.

I can hear the struggle downstairs, the sounds of furniture being overturned and my mother’s desperate cries. Each stepfeels like a mile, but I force myself to move forward. I have to be brave. I have to save her.

I rush down the stairs, my feet barely touching the steps as I fly towards the kitchen. As I reach the bottom, I see my mom lying on the kitchen floor, her body curled up and trembling.

The kitchen is a mess. Broken dishes and spilled food litter the floor, and the table is overturned. My mom’s face is pale, her eyes wide with terror as she clutches her side. Blood trickles from a cut on her forehead, and her breath comes in ragged gasps.

Her eyes lock with mine, a silent plea for me to run. I know it. I can feel her remaining strength willing me to escape, but I will never leave her there alone with him. My father’s back is to me, so he doesn’t see me coming until I am right behind him. Before he can turn, I knock the knife from his hand. The clatter of metal against tile echoes through the kitchen. Mom’s screams fill the room as I dive for the weapon, my heart pounding in my ears. I grab the knife, feeling its cold, hard surface against my palm.

My father spins around, his eyes wild with rage. “You little—“ he starts, but I don’t let him finish. I stand up, holding the knife between us, my hands shaking but my resolve firm.

“Stay away from her!” I shout, my voice wavering yet loud.

He lets out a laugh, a sound that chills me to the bone, like he’s a lunatic. His eyes are cold, piercing green, bloodshot from drinking. Dark stubble covers his jaw, giving him a rough, unkempt look. His hair is short and disheveled, a mix of gray and black, adding to his intimidating presence. He wears a stained, wrinkled shirt and jeans, the smell of alcohol and sweat clinging to him. He takes a step toward me, his tall, imposing figure making my knees weak. I’ve seen this crazy look in his eyes before.

“Well look who it is, my greatest disappointment,” he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt. “You just had to be a pathetic little girl, didn’t you? I should have dealt with you the minute I found out you weren’t going to be the son I always wanted. You’re just like your bitch of a mother—weak, useless, and a constant reminder of my failures.”

I tighten my grip on the knife, my hands shaking. “I’m not afraid of you,” I lie, trying to sound braver than I feel. “The police are coming. It’s over.”

He takes another step closer, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll see about that,” he growls, lunging at me.

I brace myself, ready to defend my mom and myself, knowing that this might be our only chance to escape his terror.

“Come here you little bitch.” His rage is palpable. “You think you’re going to do anything with that? Huh? You’re weak, Fallon. You won’t do anything to me. Look at you—“ I cut him off as I lunge for him. The knife slices into his thigh as a horrid scream bellows from his chest. In his agony, his grip loosens, allowing my mother to slide away. Everything seems to move in slow motion as I lift my hand for my mother to take. Our hands connect, a fleeting moment of hope. But before I can pull her to her feet, I feel it—a sharp, searing pain in my stomach.

He uses the same knife against me, slicing through my flesh. A gasp escapes my lips as I drop to the floor. The pain radiates through my body as his maniacal chuckles fill the air.

Blood.

There is so much blood.

I hear my mom’s screams echoing through the house, but I can’t move. I’m frozen in place by the pure hatred on my father’s face. His jaw ticks in disgust as he looks down at me. The room feels like it’s closing in, the walls pressing against me, suffocating me with fear.

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