This is a 2500-word story I wrote earlier this year. Trigger warning - violence/rape/language.
Dreams of a Better Life
Mama stood at the
stove, her back to me. Her shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. Daddy had
hit her pretty hard. I’d wanted to run out of the kitchen from my seat at the
table, but she shot me a look and I knew it meant stay put. So I stayed put,
moving my fork from the plate to my mouth, even though I couldn’t swallow a
bite. I couldn’t do anything except try to make a getaway in my mind. I
pictured the meadow behind our house. I was flat out running, not stopping
until I reached the tall oak tree with the hollowed out part. I crawl into the
opening and feel safe…in my mind. But in my body I was frozen to the seat,
afraid to make a wrong move. To breathe. To do anything to set him off again.
I’m Abigail. I’m twelve
years old. We live on the edge of Moss Point, Mississippi. It’s not much of a
town, more like a wide place in the road. Mama says our nearest neighbor is a half
mile down the road. We haven’t lived here very long. We used to live in Jackson,
on a street with lots of other houses. But there was always trouble when Daddy was
drinking. I think somehow as the liquor pours into him that hate and anger
pours into him too. Because when he drinks he always wants to fight, and even
though mama and I stay out of his way, he’ll make us come to him.
It usually starts
with a question…something like, “Abigail, did you take out the trash like I
told you?”
“Yes, Daddy. I put it
in the garbage can outside.”
Then he’ll make a big
show of finding trash on the floor at his feet, usually a bottle he’s just
dropped. He bends down and says, “Well damn, girl, looks like you missed
some. Get over here and pick up this trash.”
By this time I’m
shaking in my shoes and Mama is telling him to sit down, that she’ll get the trash
and throw it out. But it’s no use. You can see the flash in his eyes; he’s
wound up tight and, by God, he’s got to teach us a lesson. That’s when the real
pain begins.
When we lived in town
and Daddy would get on a tear, the neighbors would call the police on him, That’s
when Daddy decided we needed a house with some land. So here we are. No one
around here to stick their nose in his business.
Mama does the best
she can. She scrubs the house until it’s spotless and her knuckles are red and
raw. She cooks all the foods Daddy likes. She talks in a low, calm voice to
soothe him. But every day, I see her tense up when we hear his truck coming up
the drive. I know, because the same thing happens to me. I hold my breath when
he comes in the door, waiting for his first words, because that lets us know
how things will go from there.
Sometimes, it’ll be
all right. “Hey Sugar, what’s for supper?” She relaxes and smiles and tells him
what he wants to hear. And I feel the muscles in my stomach unclench just a
little as I put on a smile too.
But then sometimes,
like tonight, he comes home loaded for bear. He hit Mama because she was too
slow getting his supper on the table. But, even if she’d been faster, he
would’ve found another reason to knock her around. Already she’s got the
beginnings of a black eye that’ll just get worse as the night goes on. I feel
completely helpless. Impotent. I learned that word in school and it’s a good
word, a perfect word for me, as I sit here pretending to my supper. Our old dog
Lucy is laying under the table and I’m passing bites of food to her, and it
looks like I’m eating the food off my plate. So hopefully I’ll be okay
there. Of course, there was the time that he knocked me to the floor and kicked
me in the stomach because I was being a glutton and a pig. He said he was going
to bring a trough into the kitchen and from then on I’d eat from that, like the
true piggie I was. So food is a tightrope I try to walk. There are so many
tightropes and the truth is, no matter how careful I am, if Daddy means to find
fault, he finds fault.
But as bad as it is
on me, it’s way worse for Mama. I asked her once why she’d married Daddy. She’d
looked at me a long time, then sighed and told me that she was young and didn’t
have a good home life. She said Daddy was charming. Charming. He’d made her
feel safe, promised to take care of her forever. And for a while, he did what
he said. He found a good job and a little house to rent. She said they laughed
over her early attempts at cooking but, little by little, she learned how to make
the food he loved and keep the house like he wanted. They were happy.
But then, everything seemed
to go wrong. Mama got pregnant and, about the same time, Daddy lost his job.
They had to move because they got behind on their rent. Mama said they ended up
in a boarding house where roughnecks loitered around day and night. Daddy tried
to find good work, but couldn’t. Eventually, he took a job as a bouncer at a
local bar. He got his drinks for free, which started him down a very bad road. He
left Mama alone every night and she was afraid to be in that place by herself.
She said she’d cried and begged him to quit the job, to find something else –
anything else – where he could stay home nights, but by that time Daddy was
already changing. He’d told her she was getting hysterical over nothing, he was
keeping the job because it was the only thing putting a roof over their heads,
and she should just shut up about it.
And then it happened.
One night two men broke into mama’s room and raped her. I’ll never forget the
look on her face when she told me that…like her face was suddenly carved out of
stone. She said she lost the baby, which turned out to be a boy. Mama said it
was like a switch flipped inside Daddy. And even though eventually he found a
better job and they were able to move to another house, things were never the
same. She said Daddy blamed her for losing his son. He said terrible
things to her about the night of the rape and she told me she’d never forget
his words, that they hurt as much as the rape did, as much as losing her baby.
Eventually, she got
pregnant again, this time with me. She said Daddy was nicer to her during her
pregnancy, but when he saw me, disappointment flooded his face. I wasn’t the
son he wanted. My earliest memory is of Daddy standing over Mama, yelling right
in her face that she couldn’t do anything right, couldn’t give him the son he
wanted. That she wasn’t worth a shit.
So that’s our life. As
lives go, I think ours is pretty bad. I know I’m supposed to be thankful for my
blessings, like a roof over my head and clothes on my back and food to eat. But
if I’m being honest, I don’t feel thankful. I feel … cheated. I wish mine and
Mama’s lives were different. I wish my family wasn’t painted red with rage and
despair. With pain. I wish we could be washed clean and set down in a place
with fresh air and room to breathe, to be happy. But it’s just a dream. And dreaming
too hard can cause its own pain. Best to not expect anything. Best to just get
through the days with my head down.
After supper, I’m allowed
to go to my room. I’m really tired, but my stomach is still shaking and it
takes me a long time to go to sleep. I can hear raised voices, but nothing else,
no furniture breaking or anything hitting the wall. I finally fall asleep. I
don’t dream. I wake up around six and hurry to get dressed and go downstairs to
help Mama with breakfast. She never asks for help; I just want to be there with
her when he comes down.
The morning goes fine.
Daddy eats and pronounces breakfast ”good” and we breathe easier. Then he’s off
to work and I start upstairs to get my books and jacket to walk to the bus
stop. But Mama stops me.
“Abigail, I need your
help today.”
“Sure, Mama, let me
just—” The look on her face stops me cold in my tracks. “Mama?” She’s looking
at me so strangely.
“Abigail, I’ve always
been honest with you – maybe too honest – about our life. About Daddy
and how he became what he is…how we ended up here.” She paces from one side of
the kitchen to the other, then back to face me.
“The fact is, if we
don’t do something he’s going to kill me. Lord knows he’s told me that a
hundred times…sometimes with his hands around my neck, sometimes with his
pistol aimed at my head…but always with a cold dead look in his eyes. He’s
telling me the truth, Abigail. One of these days he’ll do it. And where will
that leave you?”
I know she’s right.
I’d seen him threaten her life more times than I can count, and I’d seen those
same dead eyes look at me while he slapped or punched or kicked me. There’s not
a doubt in my mind that she is speaking the truth. I take a deep breath.
“What are we going to
do?”
Mama looks at me,
tears shimmering in her eyes. “I’ve thought this through a million different ways,
but 99% of them just don’t work and we end up worse off than we are right now.”
She takes a ragged breath before continuing, “The only way is for us to
eliminate the source of our problem. I’d do it alone, but I can’t. I
need your help”
I feel my eyebrows
arch straight up. “Are you – are you saying…?”
“Yes, honey. It’s the
only way.”
I look out the window
for a minute and try to make my brain process what she’s saying. I try to think
about the life I’ve dreamed of – a life without him in it – but I can’t picture
it. Instead, my brain feels like a ping pong ball – thoughts bouncing around all
over the place. My vision suddenly narrows to twin pinpricks of light and it feels
like I’m swimming underwater. What is happening to me?
“Abigail, sit down.
You’re white as a ghost. Here, honey. Drink some juice.” Like a robot, I do
what I’m told and, little by little, the room comes back into focus and my head
clears.
“I’m sorry, Abigail.
I expect too much from you. Are you feeling better, honey?”
“I’m fine Mama. I –
I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t know why that happened.”
“It was just too much
of a shock to you. I should’ve never even brought it up. ”
“Mama, it’s all right.
I’m all right. Please, finish what you were saying.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
We spend the rest of
the day going over the plan time and time again, searching for all possible weaknesses
and making adjustments. It’s hard, but we know the stakes. To succeed means
death. And to fail means death. Now, it’s just a matter of whose.
Daddy comes home in a
tolerable mood, which is good. When he asks, I lie and tell him school was
fine, we’re studying the Civil War. He talks about how that war pitted brother against
brother and what a shame that was, that families could be torn apart. Mama
pours him a large whisky and he smiles as he takes the first sip.
She and I keep that
glass full as the evening goes on, agreeing with everything Daddy says, even
when he starts slurring his words. As Mama helps Daddy upstairs to bed I move
the lighted candle to the windowsill. Such a brave little light shining against
the big dark night. A little close to those curtains, though. One little
flutter and that could be disastrous.
And just like it was
meant to be, it happens. The curtain catches, then the books on the shelf next
to the window. Then the bookcase itself.
“Mama?”
“I’m here, Abigail.
You ready?”
“Almost. Here, Lucy.”
The old girl ambles up and I grip her collar. We walk out the front door as the
carpet whooshes up in flames. Now the stairs are fully engulfed.
“Is it time?”
“Let’s give it
another minute.”
The window at the top
of the stairs explodes. “It’s time.”
We start jogging to
the nearest neighbor’s house – a half mile away – and when we get there I’m
hysterical, beating on the door, tears running down my face. “Please! Call 911!
Our house is on fire! My daddy—” I break down, sobbing.
By the time the fire
truck arrives, the house is gutted. There’s literally nothing left. Our kind
neighbors have loaned us jackets and shoes, since we escaped wearing just our
nightclothes. Eventually, a police officer takes us to the little motel in town
and gets us a room for the night. She tells us someone from the Red Cross will come
by tomorrow to help us figure out what’s next.
At last, alone in our
hotel room, we look at each other. We hug for a really long time. Finally, Mama
holds me at arm’s length and says, “Abigail, I love you.” I swallow, hard, and
tears fill my eyes.
“Mama, if I live to be
a hundred years old I will never doubt that. I know you did this to give me a
better life. And I’ve been thinking, I can quit school for a while and try to
find a job to help out. We’ll need every penny we can get to make it on our own.”
Mama holds her hand up.
“You just hold it
right there. You’ll stay in school and you will excel in school.”
“But how will we live?”
“You don’t have to
worry about that. There’s insurance on the house and on your Daddy.”
“Insurance?”
“Of course. It’s not
a fortune, but we’ll be all right.”
As I hug her again, I
find that the dreams for a better life that I couldn’t see before are suddenly
getting clearer. But first, I’m going to sleep – really sleep – tonight.
