“No, it is not”

a story that shaped my life

I was eight years old and laying on the ground under a bed. Looking to my right I see my older sister with her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her hands over her ears. We shiver as the yelling gets louder and louder. My body starts to crawl out from under the bed. As I head to the door, my eight-year old hand shakes as it reaches for the handle. I step out, hearing the shouts and turn to see my biological father standing tall and strong over my step-mother, who is crouched in front of him wrapped around his leg. She yells, “You are a fucking drunk and horrible father and husband.” I see two glasses by my father. One is empty and the other is half full, vodka and soda. There is broken necklace on the couch. My father’s arm raises above his head with a flat palm. My heart starts to pound out of my chest and my eyes widen. As his arm starts to move though the air my mouth opens and yells, “NO DAD NO!”

Flesh hits flesh.

My dad looks at me and says, “Go back to your room!” He turns to my step-mother and yells, “You made me do this!”

I turn around and run. I run towards the phone and with my shaking hands push 9-1-1.

“9-1-1 What is your emergency?” says the receptionist. I reply, “My dad is drunk and hit my step-mother.” She asks me for the address and my dad’s name. I give them both to her. She informs me, “We have this address and name on record, is this the first time you have called us?”

“No, it is not,” I reply as I am whipped around. I feel her cold brittle hands wrap around my neck and she says, “You little whore.”