Her screams are muffled through the crooked door, but the words are too angry, to furious to be blocked out. It doesn't matter how tightly I plug my ears. It doesn't matter how hard I try to ignore them. I sink down further where I'm sitting on the floor of my closet, pulling my skinny, dirty knees to my flat chest, and let the numbness slowly creep over me.
Don't feel. It's better if you don't feel.
Her storming steps are shaking the house like a thunderstorm, but there's no safety to be found under this roof, within these four walls.
She doesn't stop, the familiar insults roll so easily off her tongue. She calls us every name she can think of. She hurls the words at the walls, she grinds them into the carpet, she fills the house with her fury, with her hatred. I don't know where the others are. We have all gone still as frightened little mice, creeping into dark corners.
I don't cry. I can't cry. Not about this. I know that with childish certainty. I can't feel anything. It's easier that way.
...
I don't remember why she was angry. I just remember her face, growing dangerously darker. But I was angry too, and I squared my slight eight year old shoulders and stubbornly stood my ground. I didn't deserve this.
Her words grew steadily louder, her gestures sharper. Her anger made no sense, and I was so tired. So tired of her manipulations. And so frustrated with being helpless.
She said something. Something I don't remember. My temper boiled over, and I rolled my eyes.
I didn't see it coming. She moved too fast. Her hand cracked across my face, making my ears ring. I stumbled backwards, shocked, but she was in my face again.
"Go to your room." She said through tightly clenched teeth, hatred in every line on her face.
I fled, my angry spirit broken. I barely got the door closed before she started screaming. I climbed on top of the mountain of cardboard boxes in the unfinished storeroom attached to my bedroom. I climbed all the way up to the small window, shoving it open with shaking hands. As far as I could see there was only mountain fields and trees. I wanted to get out, to get away, but I paused there.
She's a monster, my brain whimpered. My mother is a monster. I can't take this anymore. I can't.
What will you do? That detached, numb part of me asked tonelessly. Run away? And go where? Live in the woods by yourself? I'd read a book about a boy who had done just that. He'd lived off of berries and animals he trapped, and he even used a plant root as soap. I was a child of the wild mountains, but I was still afraid of the woods at night.
Tell someone? And then what? Get taken away? Away from your siblings? Put in foster care? You've read books about that too. Foster care is even worse.
That's when tears came. Bitter, helpless, miserable tears. I curled up on top of the boxes, holding my breath to keep from making any noise, and cried because I knew that I was just a kid and there was nothing I could do.
...
"Good morning!" The Pastor greets us at the door, smiling.
"Good morning!" My mother and father say in unison, smiling back.
"Good morning!" I say, smile pasted on.
"Good morning!" Echoes my little sisters, my brother.
We all smile because that's what you do. You smile. This is our stage.
We sit in the pew, all six of us dressed in our Sunday best, which is shabby thrift store finds. The rest of the congregation pours in, weather-beaten farmers, rough mountain dwellers, the meth addicts, their faces lined with pain and suffering, the fat, friendly old ladies who always smell like pound cake. There is the man who beats his wife and kids. He sits straight and proud, dark eyes fixed straight ahead. Beside him, his wife sits with slumped shoulders. Their children huddle in the pew like whipped dogs. They are to be pitied. We are not like them.
The Pastor talks about God. He looks tired. I would be tired too, trying to hold this broken flock together. But my parents sit straight and serene. We are the picture perfect family. The family to be modeled after. Bibles in hand, silent and attentive. So godly.
And we are so good at this lie, I almost believe it.
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