I sat there, pressing my hands over my ears harder and harder every second, my eyes are squeezed so tight, I begin seeing black spots on the insides of my eyelids, yet I can still see my father hit her, still hear him calling her fat and ugly and stupid. I can still hear her crying, I can still see the red handprints on her cheek, the bruises on her arms and stomach. She yelled to me, go to him, she yelled, go to him. I got up and ran, temporarily letting go of my eyes and ears, feeling the pain as the blood rushes to the cartilage and the light in my eyes. I ran up the flight of 14 steps, into my brother's room, the only room in the house with the lock on the door. I slammed the door and locked it, giving my brother a look that he was all too familiar with, and crawled under his bed. He sat on the floor with his back to the bed, protecting me from my father. A knock came at the door, after what felt like an hour, and my brother shushed me. A voice came from the other side, let me in, she whispered. He scrambled to open the door, we could hear him stomping up the stairs, the alcohol was so strong, it was almost a perfume that always lingered on his skin. I looked up from under the bed, and my mother and brother crawled toward to me and held me. Beat on the door, he did, beat on the door. Pound, pound, pound. The door shook, threatening to break in half, the windows vibrated. I sat there, pressing my hands over my ears harder and harder every second, my eyes are squeezed so tight, I begin seeing black spots on the insides of my eyelids, yet I can still see my father hit her, still hear him calling her fat and ugly and stupid. I began to cry and it stung.
~Anonymous
