Caught in a Crossfire

Prologue

"Been there before, but not like this. Seen it before but not like this.

Never before have I seen him this bad. She's just a woman. Never Again."-Never Again, Nickelback.

"Tell them you slipped and fell," Daddy says to my mom as we're driving to the hospital, making a sharp turn. The car swerves, but he seems to be getting used to driving drunk. It's stupid to me in my five-year-old eyes, but I am scared for Mommy. "That broken hand of yours is from a slip from the stairs by tripping over what's her name's . . . sock." He trails off, wondering and waving his hand in a circle, asking mom to answer the name.

"Autumn." Mommy finishes, but with a bite in her tongue. Well, at least, an attempt. "Her name is Autumn."

"Like I don't need a fucking repeat," he says sarcastically and pulls into the parking lot. When we park, Dad looks over his shoulder at me. "Listen to me, Autumn. I know what you saw tonight-if the nurse wonders why you're with us, tell her you heard your mommy fall down the stairs. Got it?" He glances down at my pants, that are now soaked with pee and a little bit of blood. "Tell them you also need to change your pants. Look in the backpack."

I flinch in my seat, and immediately search in the FEO (For Emergencies Only) backpack, looking for some pants. He always has backup things when his rage gets out of hand. A bloody nose that's dripping on Mom's shirt? Brand new one in the backpack for her to switch. Pants? You name it. He always has lots of things when Mommy is hurt.

But this, her broken hand, is something the FEO backpack cannot fix.

I remember watching it all happen as I stare from the crack in my door. Dad was clutching Mom by her shirt, yelling and calling her things I didn't know what they meant. She cried and kicked at him in useless attempts, but he just kept screaming and saying he was going to make her pay for something, and then I heard her screams and the sound of something going down the stairs. And I screamed then Daddy slapped me and told me to shut up, then, went downstairs, lifted Mom by her shoulders, and dragged her outside to the car, and told me to come out.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, then mine and mommy's. "Get out, both of you." he orders, and I hop out, grabbing my stuffed bunny and little pants and dodge Daddy nearly slamming the door on my hair. As we walk to the hospital entrance, I see something white poking out of my mom's fingers, dripping red down the ground. Bones, I think to myself.

I was upset, and alone and guilty during this time in the hospital as we wait to be checked in.

I fear Mommy may wind up . . . the 'd' word, because he hits her so much.

As the doctor asks for what really happened-he didn't buy Mommy's lie-Mommy gets scared and doesn't talk, saying that's what happened. She slipped and fell.

If only I can talk. Say what actually happened. But no, it won't work. The truth for why I don't want to speak and Mommy is silent . . .

Is in the waiting room with those hands that are like a bear, big and mean. Looking just as kind and 'scared' as he can.

And you are the cause of it all, he says with eyes so dark.