Life, the Greatest Toll
The rain beat the glass of my window that night, long after I learned there was nothing I disliked more than the roaring disruption of a violent storm. I turned my TV up. It was 10:00 P.M., and I walked into the living room pretending I was on crutches with my batons for the second time. This time, my father snapped at me to go back to my room. The first time I walked into our crammed living room they sat on separate blue leather couches. Unlike other times, my father's feet weren't rested next to the large gash on the aging ottoman; he sat upright and so did my mother. I went into the living room the second time because I was still afraid for her. I obeyed his command and went to my room, but I muted my TV and left my door open so I could help if needed.
I didn't want him to kill my mother. As soon as I sat on my pink floral bed spread I heard her scream. I ran my fastest run down the hallway, and I turned right into the living room. I screamed, "STOP!" and grabbed his arm as he towered over my mother. He pushed me off, and I landed on the arm of the couch. I got up and grabbed the phone from the desk, two steps from the couch. This was the last time. He needed to go to jail. My father turned to me as I dialed 911. This time I had his full attention. He raised his arm to hit me, and my mother leapt in front of him. She did something that threw him off his balance, then she grabbed me, and we rushed down the hallway to my bedroom. Once we were there, we locked the door and moved my cream dresser with my television on top in front of it. But, he was strong. He threw his body against the door and cracked it. Once his damage was tangible, he left.
I couldn't breathe. My mother and I clung to each other and cried. She was 28, and I was 7. Summer 2001 was when our family began.