Abandon Me

A loud, sharp banging on the door forced him from his safe, dreamless sleep. His eyes flicked blearily to his digital alarm clock by his bedside, then to the source of the sound. His ratty old desk chair had been propped up behind the door, his vain attempt at trying to lock his room door at night.

At four o’clock in the morning, he knew it couldn’t be good.

He could hear his father swearing from the other side of his bedroom door. Quickly, he pulled back the sheets, the reality of the situation was like a bucket of ice cold water had just been thrown over his head. A sickening feeling settled in his gut.

His window had been barred, metal bars bolted from the outside prevented him from escaping through the window, a recent project that his father had invented to stop him from running away. Nevertheless, he went to the window, maybe because it was a force of habit that the years had developed in him, or maybe because he thought that there was the slightest hope that the bars would miraculously fall away, that he could be able to get out – even though he had nowhere else to go, and no one to go to.

There was a splintering crash, and the door burst open, the chair crushed under the sheer rage-driven force behind his father’s drunken eyes.  Bright, blinding light flooded his room, burning his eyes, and the boy had to turn away, squinting in the harsh light.

“You,” his father spat, stumbling towards him, shoving the broken remains of the chair out of his way.

The boy was already on the move, edging away from him, trying to slip past his father and out into the corridor. Perhaps he could try to make it past and sprint out the front door.

But the small flame of hope was extinguished as his father grabbed his son by the collar of his shirt, a clenched fist slamming into his jaw, sending the boy reeling back. Before his son had a chance to recover from the first hit, another blow in his gut winded him, and he staggered back, gasping for breath.

“You worthless piece of shit!” his father snarled.

His father paused as he drained the rest of the beer left in the glass bottle, before he lashed out, swinging the bottle at him, sneering at his son who used his hands to shield his face and a satisfied smile carved into his cold face with every solid thud that came with every violent strike.

Eventually the boy stopped moving, his hands dropped from his face and his body slumped limply against the wall. After a few more kicks and crushing blows, the father grew bored and left, stumbling down the staircase and into the lounge room below.

Semi-conscious, his son opened his eyes. He could taste blood on his tongue but he knew not to complain. He had gotten off lucky this time.

Suddenly a pain-filled scream echoed in the house, and he immediately identified as his mother’s. Even though he was aching all over, and the last thing he wanted to do was move, he refused to stand by without trying to protect his mother. Struggling to rise, he made his way down to the lounge room as quickly as he could manage.

And then there was a gunshot.

His mother held the gun at his father, who held her wrist tightly. A small bullet hole had been burned in the carpet between them. The son’s eyes flickered between his mother, who was dressed with her long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, a small suitcase in her hand, while his father, his hair unruly, dressed in a nightrobe, and eyes glazed over with drunkenness stood panting.

“Let go of me,” she said calmly, despite her shaking hands and the tell-tale black and blue bruises that she tried to hide under her make-up.

For the first time in a long time, her husband did as she asked him. She stared at him, how did it all come to this? The rosy days where they loved each other seemed so long ago – they had almost faded from her memory. Her eyes turned to her eleven-year-old son, whom she could see hiding behind the railing on the stairs.

His lip was bleeding, his cheek was swollen, and painful red, purple and blue blotches covered his pale skin – some old, some new. His eyes were wide as he watched them, and she turned her head in shame. She wanted to forget this life, and she needed to leave everything behind.

Everything.

Then without looking back, she walked out, hoping that one day, her son would find a way to forgive her, maybe understand that she had to do this. But she didn’t expect him to.

The door closed behind her, and she never came back.