Page 5 of Through the Flames
Letting the pillow flop back down, leaving my ears uncovered again, I realized something was different tonight. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it made me sit up ever so slowly.
His voice rose and rose. Did he sound louder because I’d been covering my ears? The words he was spewing were violent and terrifying.What was happening?
The sheets slipped off my legs with a slight rustle as I got out of bed. My footsteps were swallowed up by the thick carpet, and the click of my lock disengaging went unheard, drowned out by his booming voice.
As I slipped through the door, the cold stone stung my bare feet as if I had stepped onto ice.
I inched down the hallway, trying to make no noise. Trying to be invisible.
My mom’s soft voice turned more and more pleading as she made gentle attempts to calm my father’s temper. Useless, as always.
“Steven, please. Hunter is sleeping. Let’s just talk—”
“I’m done talking to you. You’re too stupid to understand me. Why should I bother?” he scoffed mockingly.
My back was pressed against the wall just outside the living room, where he was raging. Fury pounded through my veins, twisting my stomach into tight knots.
How dare he? How dare he call her stupid?My mom was the best. She was kind and warm. She wasn’t stupid.
My fists shook as I squeezed my eyes shut.When did I start breathing so hard?I counted to five and tried to steady my breaths.
The jarring sound of glass shattering caused my eyes to fly open again.
What happened?
“You stupid bitch!”
“Steven, stop!”
I took another step toward the door and froze as a pained shriek rang out, followed by a crack and then a dull thud.
She had never sounded like this before.What was he doing to her?
Suddenly, silence.
Sickening silence.
My whole body shook, and my heart, which had just been beating a mile a minute, froze in my chest.
I took a step, then another.
From the doorway, I had a perfect view of my mother. Lying on the floor. In a pool of blood.
Her glassy eyes rolled my way, and a last flicker of emotion passed through them. Pain? Loss? Regret? I wasn’t sure.
She gasped, her lips moving like she wanted to tell me something, but no sound was coming out. The dark pool of liquid was gradually soaking into the beige area rug.
All I could hear were my father’s labored breaths and the crunch of glass beneath his feet as he stalked toward her.
He studied her, the whiskey glass still in his hand, swishing the amber liquid.
With a flash, it was like everything operated at normal speed again.
“You need to help her!” I shouted, running to her side.
A sharp pain shot through my foot, but I didn’t flinch. Dropping to my knees right on the edge of the blood-soaked rug, I grabbed her limp hand.
I looked up at him, my eyes wide with panic.
