I was standing, though it felt like I had blacked out. My head was throbbing, my hands were shaking, and my chest was heaving.
“What happened?” I don’t remember anything at all. Not even my name.
My right hand felt tickly so I reached over with my left to itch it, only to feel something warm and sticky. I looked down and saw blood, blood on both my hands dripping down to my elbow as I held them up. Trying to keep calm, I looked around for answers.
There, on the floor, someone was lying down; a male with a gun in his hand. His face was turned to the side away from me, his short black hair soaked with sweat, his black leather jacket oozing with blood from his side. I stepped towards him, my sneakers squished from all the blood it absorbed.
I looked down to see that I had left vivid red footprints, coming from the familiar kitchen. It was my kitchen, I was at home.
“Was it a robbery? Was I defending myself?”
I took my attention away from the man and followed the trail, taking me from the living room hall to the kitchen, to the back door. The glass door was shattered, blood splattered across the wooden floor. Observing more closely, the broken glass was outside. Someone was leaving as they broke through the glass door. I didn’t see an item that could have been used to break the glass door. But mine wasn’t hard to break; it was single paneled and fairly thin, anyone could break through it. A few feet away was a kitchen knife, smeared in blood; it must have been used.
I heard a groan from the living room hallway.
“Son of a-” It was the man.
Struck with fear, I crouched down against the wall, tears swelling up.
Heavy, slow thuds were vibrating my wooden floors.
I heard him enter the kitchen from the sounds of the plastic tile floors sticking to the bottom of his shoes.
The faucet squeaked as he turned it on and grabbed a cup from the cabinet. Loud gulps consumed the silence. He knew this place. He didn’t search for the cups.
He opened the fridge and opened a canned drink, must be beer; everything else is bottled.
He pulled out a chair and sat down as he groaned.
“Wait til I find ya Haylie!” He yelled.
Haylie. That’s me.
I lifted my head and looked around. There were photos, photos of me, a man, and a girl who seemed to be ten years old.
I’m married.
And I remembered.
My daughter’s name is Christina. She’s not ten, she’s eight. And my husband, I hate my husband. He was always drunk and angry. Ever since he had been laid off, he has not been able to tolerate anything at all. As soon as he came home from the bar, Christina would go to her room in silence and I would just sit there on the couch, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t like noise.
Christina and I had been living in fear for a year now; in silence, in fear, and in pain.
It wasn’t always like this. He was a good husband, he was an amazing father.
But after he got laid off, it had been progressively getting worse. First it was drinking, then the yelling, then the hitting. He never laid a hand on Christina though; he seemed to know that was his boundary, up until today he had broken his boundary.
He hit her, right in front of me. He pounded his fist into her face, her stomach, and her head repeatedly, gripping her tightly by her tiny arms.
“Stop it! She’s only eight! She’s just a child! Hit me!” I cried.
“Don’t worry, you’re next! You’re the one to blame for all of this mess!” He laughed.
“Christina, go to your room!” I yelled.
“Don’t you dare move. I can’t have you running away and telling anyone about this,” He growled.
Christina stood there, bruised and bleeding. The look in her eyes pierced my heart; they looked empty and lifeless, scared and hopeless.
I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a kitchen knife.
“Oh ho! Ho! Getting a little brave, are we? I don’t think so!” He yanked me by the hair, causing me to drop the knife. It slid near Christina’s feet.
I felt the cold medal from his gun against my neck rising to my head.
“Christina, it’s just going to be me and you. Don’t worry baby, once your mother is gone, we’ll be happy again,” He spoke calmly.
“Christina! Run!” I yelled.
I elbowed him and swiftly turned around to kick him in the groin. He doubled over, dropping his gun.
“This way!” I shouted, heading for the back door.
Christina ran in front me.
I fell as my husband grabbed me by the ankles.
“Mom!” Christina was crying. She ran towards me, grabbing the knife on her way, and stabbed him on the side.
“You little-!” He was holding his side as he was tossing and turning in pain.
“Run Christina, and get help,” I cried as I crawled towards him. The window shattered as Christina ran through the glass doors, she was always too weak to slide open the door on her own.
I tried to stop the bleeding with my hands. I stood up to get a cloth. But the sight of him bleeding, the thought of Christina being hit, the cold medal against my head, all became overwhelming.
That’s when I must have woken up from the trauma.
I started to cry.
“Is Christina OK?”
I heard sirens. I smiled.
“She must be OK if help is coming.”
I knew my husband heard the sirens too. He swore and got up, his footsteps getting louder as he came closer to where I was. He must have decided to leave through the back door.
I was trying to crawl on my stomach around the corner.
“You!” He snarled as he caught sight of me.
I flipped over on my back only to see him aiming his gun at me.
“Jason! Please!” I begged.
The last thing I heard was a gunshot.
Blip. Blip. Blip.
“Haylie?” It was a woman’s voice.
I opened my eyes. My vision was blurred and I couldn’t make out her face.
“Ashlie?” My voice was groggy and soft. Looking around and seeing the monitor with IV’s hooked, I knew I was in the hospital.
“Yea, it’s me,” She took my hand into hers as tears streaked down her face.
She continued, “Christina called from your next door neighbor’s house. She said Mrs. Cherry had called the cops for her and had her call me afterwards.”
“What about him?” My voice cracked.
“The cops heard a gunshot so they rushed in. They saw him running towards the backyard and grabbed him before he got away. The doctors said you got a flesh wound and you’ll be perfectly fine. They came just in time,” Ashley smiled as she said the last few words.
“And Christina?” I felt scared.
“She’s okay but she’s in a worse condition than you are,” Ashlie started to cry.
“What happened?” I choked up.
“She’ll be okay. But she has a couple of broken ribs, a broken arm, and her cheekbones are fractured,” Ashlie gripped my hands tighter.
“Where is she? I want to see her,” I was crying.
“She’s a couple floors down where they treat children.”
I got out of bed, held onto the IV stand and made my way down to see my daughter.
“I’m looking for Christina O’Brien. I’m her mother,” I stated to the nurse at the counter.
“Ah yes, we all know you two. You two are lucky to be alive,” The nurse smiled as she pointed to the door across from me.
“Thanks,” I said as I made my way.
“Christina?” I whispered.
“Mommy?” I heard her soft voice speak.
“Yes, I’m here. Are you okay, sweetie?” I rushed in to hug her.
“Yes,” Her tiny frail arm held tightly around me, her other arm in a cast.
“Is daddy gone?” She asked.
“Yes, we’re safe now,” I smiled and held onto her, “We’re safe.”