The Turning Point

CHAPTER FOUR- THERE WAS A MONSTER IN MY ROOM

Davies

"Please, Daddy! Please, don't break it!"

He didn’t hear me. I always wondered why he never stopped when I begged.

"I’ll break you instead. Is that what you want?"

I shook my head. I didn’t want to get hit. Besides, my back was already hurting, and my jaw was still red.

He stank. A sour smell, like urine and sweat. That’s how I imagined monsters smelled.

Mr. Mitchell smelled like fabric softener and coffee—a scent that felt safe, warm.

He had left a small package hidden in the corner of the fence. I knew what it was—pieces of cake his wife had baked. That day, I shared them with my mother, and she cried as she ate. Back then, I thought maybe it wasn’t the taste she liked, but still, she ate more than one piece.

I also remember watching, in despair, as my father grabbed my Turbo car and stomped on it.

"I hate you!" I thought.

God, I had said it out loud!

My father’s eyes widened. The monster had fire coming out of his eyes, his mouth open, ready to devour me. He pulled his belt from his pants, and I felt something warm trickle down my legs. I was wetting myself. And I hated myself for it.

The first blow sent me to my knees.

"I’m sorry, Daddy!" I screamed, feeling my wet face and soaked pants. "It hurts! Stop! Stop! Stop!" I yelled as loud as I could.

"You’re going to learn to respect me."

"Don’t do this. Enough!" my mother screamed.

She rushed forward, still limping.

But he didn’t stop.

Again, what was so hard about hearing a plea?

My mother wrapped her arms around me, and we held each other, crying—like a bubble of sound.

I heard every blow landing on her back. I knew it hurt. She cried with her mouth open, making sounds like a wounded animal.

My lips trembled, and I started throwing up.

Now my mother would have to clean up my piss and my vomit.

I hated myself.

"I'm sorry, Mommy."

"God, I can’t take this anymore," she whispered.

And then… he stopped.

Over my mother’s shoulder, I saw him breathing heavily. He lit a cigarette and tossed the match onto her back.

"Congratulations, Davies! Thanks to you, your mother got beaten. Just like me, you hurt people too." He spat on the floor. "You’re pathetic, Davies… You cause pain."

I heard his footsteps fade away.

My mother was still holding me. She ran her thumb across my lips, wiping away the last bit of vomit.

"Mommy… I… I…"

"Don’t speak. Just keep hugging me." She took a long breath. "I need to figure something out. I just don’t know how. I need to figure something out."

She shifted and sat on the floor. I knew she was in pain. Her face showed it.

"Let’s leave, Mommy. Please!"

"I’m trying, Davies. But where would I go? I have no money."

"Mr. Mitchell can help."

"I don’t want to involve other people in this. They could get hurt because of us."

"But he said he wants to help."

"We’ll talk about this later, sweetheart," she said, her voice tired. "Come on. Let me get you cleaned up."

"No, you’re not trying," I thought.

She groaned as she got up, and I knew it would be the same for me.

She helped me, and it stung when the water hit my skin.

I didn’t want to eat.

When my mother put me to bed, I was completely drained.

Back then, no one told me that being eight years old could be exhausting.

No one told me that being a child meant facing monsters every single day.