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Her face was the first thing I noticed. 

Late night screaming matches weren’t always such a cause for alarm. My sister and I were usually methodical in pursuing distraction to keep from hearing the spews of resentment boiling over downstairs. I actually struggle to remember a time when it really startled me.

During these times, my youngest brother was always my first priority. Not much older than a toddler, he was too young to understand that mommy and daddy weren’t friends most of the time. I was too spoiled by the many troubling nights to ever forget; the malicious air in the house became so thick sometimes that I feared he would never be able to breathe the same again. I’d hand him some toys, turn the TV on as loudly as we were allowed, give him a smile of reassurance, and go about my normal: hiding space above the stairs to overhear just in case I needed to intervene. Even at ten years old, I had a very important job.

This night started normal enough. Mommy came back from work at her normal time. Work was ok, her mood bleak. Daddy was well annoyed from the hour long commute, each way, with the same amount of traffic every time. Mommy went to change into something nice. Daddy sat on the left side of the couch, his favorite side, with a Coors already half empty. A show runs on the television to keep the silence at bay. 

Mommy comes back downstairs half an hour later, renewed and determined to show how pretty she looks. She is ready for the night. I admire her openly from the kitchen table, staring at how gorgeously her dimpled smile accessorizes the purple dress she dons. She was wearing those gorgeous open-toed heels that tied around the ankle with a myriad of blues and violets. The pattern was reminiscent of a peacock and gave such a regality to her ensemble. Daddy is unmoving and unconcerned. 

“It’s our wedding anniversary.”

Daddy looks over and is unimpressed. He mumbles something about it, void of excitement, and keeps watching. 

His beer is almost empty.

My pace quickens with the growing tension. I watch them wearily from the kitchen table where I practiced my mathematics. I weigh my options and steady my body to react.

Mommy tries to disguise her hurt with contempt. They go back and forth. Mommy got all dressed up, the weather is fine, let’s just go enjoy the night. He scoffs and scowls as if he’s pulling each of his own teeth out. Their exchange was painful though their tones remained monotonous, barely below a shout. Mommy ends up gathering her things and storms out of the room and out the front door, determined to celebrate their anniversary on her own if need be. The door slams shut leaving only her discontent behind. Daddy gets up and makes another drink, a stronger one with one of his short glasses, the liquid clear. 

I keep my eyes down and mumble an excuse to go to the room I share with my older sister without waiting for a response. I don’t think he even realized I was there to begin with. 

The night stretches until bedtime where the tension is gone and sleep seems like the most reasonable thing to do. My sister and I chat quietly about what happened, intentionally avoiding asking why Mommy isn’t back yet. She’s usually back by now. I glance at the clock. 9:57pm.

I rest my anxiety by envisioning her having the best night out with her friends. She must be laughing, joking, eating the best food from some cool restaurant she won’t be able to take us to partly because we’re too young and mostly because it’s too expensive. I relax and slip into sleep, quietly hoping she’s enjoying her time.

11:29pm

My eyes bolt open at the sound of glass shattering. My body automatically tenses yet I remain glued to my bed, unmoving. I listen so deeply and force myself not to breathe. I have to know what’s happening. For minutes that stretch for hours, I wait as I hear their voices scream back and forth. The walls shake with their rage. I hear alarming thuds, more glass, more pain. Suddenly, I hear a loud SLAM followed by a disastrous thud. There was nothing for a beat and then shrill angry words contorted by deep sobs. More arguing and angry jabs. 

The front door is opened forcefully and slams closed. After a long wave of silence, I make out my father’s deep voice as he talks hurriedly on the phone. He, too, leaves and I lay still as I listen to my sister’s deep breathing. I look at the clock again. 12:07am.

I peel the comfort of my favorite blanket away from my body and tiptoe to our bedroom door, open it, and step over the sneaky, creaky floorboards to the staircase. I stand on the landing and wait a beat before descending into a nightmare scene that I will never forget. 

I count the steps down in my head, 13 of them there are. I get to the sixth uneasily before my eyes wander and see the aftermath of war.

Blood splattered against the bare eggshell walls in our front room. The carpet had deep puddles of deep red that led back sinisterly toward our kitchen, the presumed scene of an intense night that finally imploded.

My eyes began to water immediately as I search for some reason to write this off as fantasy. My heart quickens and beats profusely as my eyes dart around, taking in the evidence. I cry to myself and walk around the front room, avoiding the confrontation of a reality I refused. Bloody handprints on the front door. Shattered pieces of glass poke out of the carpet and shine threateningly in the dull yellow light. I avoid them cautiously and decide that knowing more was better than going back upstairs. Sleep wouldn’t come to me anyway, even if I found it. I walk shakily towards the kitchen and stand silently in the doorway. 

The pale linoleum was splattered with broken china. More blood trickled here and there on the floor and even under the table. Dining chairs were overturned. Bloody handprints caress the cabinetry where the rest of their wedding china lay mostly undisturbed. I look closer and realize the white and gold plates held a secret that I will never fully know and they would never tell. The whole house was broken.

The stove took my greatest interest. 

We’ve had it forever. It was old, slow working, and had a long, silver metal handle that opened the oven. It was “L” shaped with the short end pointing downwards so that one could have something pull when opening and closing the oven door. The handle was bent greatly on the right side, as if something was thrown at it.

I had never seen so much blood before. Not concentrated like this. Not ever like this. My mind raced for minutes as it tried to make sense of it all. I have to keep my calm… But my stomach was turning and I felt so sick. I began to think about what I needed to do next. Am I to call someone? Do I try and call one of them? What do I do?

Before I realize, the front door opens and my father’s parents step through tentatively, taking in the scene. They come into the kitchen where they find me frozen in place. My grandmother tuts and tsks as she admonishes the scene. This just isn’t a place for a young girl to be. Why aren’t you asleep? This is just awful. Shouldn’t you try and go back to sleep? This just really isn’t what you should be seeing. My grandfather was unusually quiet. He’s usually more exuberant but here, his seriousness drooped his normally cheerful expression into one of deep concentration. Before long, they choose to disregard my presence as they walk around chatting quietly in code to each other about everything I still didn’t really understand.

Suddenly, I hear a small voice coming from the staircase behind me.

“Where’s Mommy?” 

My heart sinks to my feet and I spin around horrified as I face my baby brother. I didn’t even check on him, let alone hear him stirring upstairs! He who normally always crosses my mind in the pitfalls of these times was overshadowed by my curiosity. He sleepily wipes his eyes and looks around, unbothered by the lack of an answer. He truly was my mother’s shadow. They had a bond that even I, admittedly, was a bit jealous of. 

I watch as his eyes grow from low and questioning to wide and frightened. My grandmother also overhears. There were more oohs, tuts, tsks, and eventually a steady command for me to take him upstairs and back into bed.

How could I forget my one job? I was supposed to protect him from the hard truths I was unable to dodge in time. I always sought out to protect others in the darkest of times, just like the heroes and prophets in my favorite parables. Inevitably, though, it seems that reality finds a way to slip in and out of the shadows and light alike regardless of how much you do or don’t prepare. Perhaps there is no savior. 

I take him into my arms and carry him to his room where I avoid talking of the present and promise that Mommy is okay and she will be back in the morning to make him his favorite breakfast. I even promise to let him choose the tv channel in the morning. He is apprehensive but relents and is slow to fall back asleep. When he finally does, I creep steadily back down and perch on the third to last step, waiting. 

I count to three and slowly poke my head to the side where the kitchen’s fluorescent light shines accusingly on the scene.

My grandparents speak very low to each other and make arrangements. I listen as closely as I can but still don’t understand. They never mention my mother. 

Eventually, I hear furniture moving right side up. They begin to pick up the pieces, orienting everything to their original places. The glass is swept up and discarded. Opened cabinets are closed. Blood mopped carefully and dutifully. They’ll have to get a new stove. There’s no way they can use this one anymore. At least it will be new for the holidays. 

I sit and realize that I am filled with anger and disgust. Where is my mother? Why won’t they say anything about her? Why won’t they make sure she’s alright? Why are they cleaning up his mess? 

I watch them for a while until the smell of disinfectant overwhelms my senses. Defeatedly, I walk upstairs and slip back over the creaky board, duck silently into my room, close the door without a sound, and into my bed where I lay awake for hours. How can I sleep? How can I do anything without knowing she’s okay? Why didn’t I call the police? Eventually, I do fall into a quick sleep that is no more comfortable than it is restful. 

Morning breaks and I blink awake slowly. 9:36am. I rush to the window above our driveway to check to see whose car was here. Neither was. My grandparents, too, must’ve left when they deemed the job to be done.

I mindlessly go through my morning routine and go downstairs to find that everything mostly looks alright. The walls were wiped well enough. The baseboards, too. The carpet was attempted, but I could tell the blood seeped in too deeply. There’s no way it will come out. The brown stains were still noticeable. I was slightly proud of their honesty. 

My brother was sitting on the couch playing with his toys and watching tv. My sister must have helped him get the morning started. She was in the next room playing her flute, practicing for the upcoming concert at the end of next week. I listened for a while before settling next to my brother to watch his favorite show. 

Around 10 o’clock, I hear the sound of my mother’s keys clattering against the door as she unlocks it. My heart races and I am flushed with heavy relief. She’s okay, I tell myself silently and newfound hope and excitement push me out of my seat. I walk to the entryway where I see her back as she locks the door behind her. 

She turns around slowly, her back slightly hunched and eyes downcast. She must’ve felt my stare as she stops and looks up to meet my eyes.

Her face was the first thing I noticed. 

Her eyes were sad and low. Her mouth, which was always upturned with great smiles and laughter, was turned down and sullen. That wasn’t the problem, though. Her nose looked pressed in and misshapen, almost cartoonish. A long, familiar shaped indent stretched from below her right eye, over the bridge of her nose, to right below her left cheekbone. I felt her shame as she watched me look at her. Her eyes lowered as she tried to offer a weak half smile. So many questions formed in my mind.

How did you get that? Did you fall? Did you slip on something and fall? Did he do this to you? Did he push you into the stove? Did he hit you? Did you fall because he hit you? Why did he do this? Does he not love you? Do you still love him? Is this what love is? 

He couldn’t have hit her. I know my Dad. He loves her. HE LOVES HER. He loves her…right? Isn’t that why they’re married? You wouldn’t intentionally hurt someone you love…right? 

Everything was there to say. Everything that I wanted to ask, could’ve asked, could’ve said, it was all right there. Everything but the courage to know the truth. My questions never made it past my lips. I could do nothing but look. 

We exchanged nothing more than that look.