The Glass *domestic abuse warning*
A Short Story
My earliest memory is of my mother’s bloody face. We were always buying new furniture because my father couldn’t control his anger, and he broke everything my mother bought.
My older sister left only days after she turned sixteen. And the night she left will forever be burned in my memory.
My mother worked at the local liquor store. She was quiet and tough, but tender and wise — except when it came to her choice of men. She met my father when she found work as a waitress. He was the manager of the restaurant, and he charmed her with lies and dreams of a happy life. After they married, he quit his job and put all the responsibility on my mother to support us. When she was caught sleeping in the break room at the restaurant, the new manager fired her on the spot — that night, my father beat my pregnant mother for the first time.
I was born six years later. By that time, my mother was only twenty-seven years old, but she looked forty. She didn’t do drugs or alcohol — telling us stories was the only thing she did to ease her pain. She captivated me with her tales of kings and knights, dragons and fairies, soldiers and sailors, sea monsters and pirates — she told stories with passion and conviction, and she had me utterly convinced that goodness was greater than evil, but my sister never believed a word of my mother’s stories. And ultimately, running away was her solution.
My father didn’t look for her, his exact words that night were,
“Let the little bitch find someone else to take care of her. One less mouth to feed.”
I could see my mother choking back tears.
When my father fell asleep, my mother got up quietly to grab her car keys. She wanted to make sure my sister was safe. Her hand didn’t even reach the doorknob before my father had his hands on her. I saw it unfold from the doorframe of my bedroom. He was yelling and pinning her down — for once it looked like she was fighting back. She got enough space between them to kick him backwards a couple of feet and he fell on the dining room table, knocking over an empty whiskey glass — his favorite one. I could see a different fear in her eyes as she glanced at me. I knew instantly what he planned to do, and I knew I couldn’t let it happen. My father removed his belt and held it like he was getting ready to strangle her with it, he advanced toward her and without even thinking, I grabbed a piece of broken glass without him seeing. My mother was paralyzed with fear as my father began to strangle her — I knew I couldn’t let him see me coming, or he’d kill both of us — and just when the life was leaving her eyes, I thrusted the sharp glass into his neck without hesitation. Blood pulsed from his skin all over floor and I just felt bad that someone would have to clean it all up.
My mother was barely conscious, and she was completely in shock. When she opened her eyes enough to see me standing there, she started to cry. I heard her through shallow breaths say, “my baby, you saved us.”
I placed my forehead against her’s and cried with her for a while, and then I placed my hand on her bruised face and said,
“It was your stories that gave me the courage.”
Thank you for reading.
