Wicked Dance [Editing]

Twenty-Nine

Matteo

I hear the scream as I'm closing the bathroom door, my heart seeming to stop and ricochet at the same time the words echo down the dimly lit halls.

"No. Stop. Help!"

Looking down the hall, I know exactly where they come from, I know exactly from who they come from, my heart racing and feet pounding against the marble floor as I run to my mother without thinking.

"S- stop."

Running past closed doors, I expect to see our security too, the men that are supposed to make sure nothing is amiss running at the sound but I see no one or hear no one but my footsteps.

It's only me running to her.

"Help!"

I can't seem to run fast enough at the sound of her voice, at the pain that echoes and the muffled cries that vibrate down the halls.

It's like time is moving too fast and I'm not.

"Stop!"

Reaching the last corner, I almost throw myself at the open door, not knowing what I'm walking in on, on what is going on but later I'd think about all I did and could have done instead, I'll ponder on it and loathe myself for not thinking hard enough about the situation.

Later, so much later, I would know that what I was going to see would haunt my sleep for years.

Stopping at the door for what seems to be too long, rage burns in my stomach, twisting it.

I should have known, I had seen the signs. I had noticed the lack of men, the fact that the system had failed minutes ago, I should have known and told my father because if I had, my mother wouldn't be pressed against the oak desk with another man's hand on her body, touching as if she was his, making her cry.

My mother never cried.

In that second, I don't think about how it's my fault but about getting him off her.

Looking at her, she's fighting, she's trying to push his hands away, to push him away from her but he's too tall, too big, one hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing the air out of her.

He's stopping her from breathing...

Before I can even comprehend what I'm doing, I'm closing the gap between the assailant and me, my mothers eyes going wide as she sees me, a strangled cry leaving her lips as I tackle the man as if I knew what I was doing- I've never fought before, never had a reason to do so. I did sports but I didn't fight, my mother saying that fists didn't solve anything and only brought pain.

Callisto Astor said that brawls were for uncivilized men, for those who didn't know how to end things before they even started.

And in that moment I regretted it because if I had known, maybe I would have been able to make a change at how the night ended.

Caught off guard, the man who is double the size of my mother let's her go, vulgar words leaving his lips in Italian- much much later I'd go over every single detail, every second but not now- as I try squeezing the air out of him, my mother panting for air, holding her neck. "Run."