I sat behind the couch, lowering my limbs to avoid flying alcohol bottles that smashed against the trim that outlined the doorway to the hall. My heart raced, although it shouldn't have, seeing as I experience this every night my dad gets drunk. He began to develop a binge drinking disorder once my mom left. She cheated on him. My eyes panned towards the crawl space that went from the kitchen to the next room over, and that should take me to the back door, giving me a chance to run to the forest until my dad begins to sober. I hear him cry in pain as if his rampage comes forth, the bottled anger inside him reaches out and forces him to injure himself in fury. My arms shake, I suddenly leap onto my feet and darted towards the kitchen. I narrow my eyes at the small crawl space and I squeeze my small body through the hole. I hear footsteps, louder, and louder. My eyes widen, "Oh no..", I whisper to myself as if someone in front of me would get it.
They grow louder near me. Suddenly, I'm pulled back by large, throbbing hands. They pull my tiny feet and bruise my ankle. I don't scream, I kick. My under clipped toenails scratch the palm of his hand allowing me to slide past as his grip finally loosens. I squeeze through the space on my hands and knees, not looking back. My scoffed knees rub against the hard flooring, and I can feel the splinters in my hands. I kept crawling, when I stopped. I could hear his faint mumbles through the wall. I pressed my tiny ears against it and surrounded it with my palms. A knife sliding. He's in the kitchen. I press my knees against my chest and fold my arms around them. I'm looking down and I close my eyes as I hear his large feet hitting the carpet. "I'm gonna die...".
"Chanler!", he screams furiously at the top of his lungs. "Come out here NOW!", his fist hits the wall, out of fury. This man came from hell, and I'm his son, possibly going there too. He is the devil. I'm the son of Satan. I finally use the little strength I have to get back on my knees and push myself forth. Throughout the path I hear his feet following the path, he knows exactly where I'm headed. I get to a narrow path, that means I'm closer to the back door. His feet stop. I stop. All is quiet until I hear the sound of leftovers splattering all over the tile. That was my wake up call. I crawled faster until I was about to fall and once to the back door I bolted. I looked behind me only once, to see my fathers black hair sagging, as vomit spilled from his mouth yet unable to see his most likely expressionless face. I kept running.
I didn't care about the volume of my steps or my breathing pattern. All I could think of was where I was going to finally be safe. Safe, until he is sober. And when he is sober I can finally be released from his intentions. Intentions to kill me. My name is Chanler, I am 8 years old.
