You are only fifteen, but your baby sister Jennie is in the next room hiccupping quiet tears to herself. It’ll take a while for you to become sufficiently instigated, given that your hands are shaking violently where you’ve stuffed them under your armpits, and your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly you’re beginning to see purple dots. Go ahead and keep them closed—you won’t need them for a little while. Keep your ears open, though, and listen closely to the ruckus unfolding in your kitchen. Listen to the heavy clunking of your drunken stepfather’s walk, his slurred words and his sleazy chuckle. That alone is enough to send a jolt of fear through your slender arms and quicken your already agitated heartbeat. But fear won’t be enough—tune in to your mother, as her nervous sweet-talk gradually inclines in pitch—as her words transform from shaky to incomprehensible. You hear a soft thud and then a shriek—now her voice is broken, shrill, and plaintive. She is begging. Let your tremulous fingers grow stiff and allow them to curl into the sweaty flesh of your palm, clench your teeth and hold your breath. The anger courses through your blood and makes you breathe faster—you’re incensed. You’re mother has been black and blue since she married that son-of-a-bitch and you won’t stand for it anymore.
But you’re still locked to the little alcove you’ve created in the center of your bed, you’re still too frightened to move—and you’re eyes are still closed. Don’t worry, only a little longer now. Listen to the sound of your sister’s sobs become a little bit louder—you’re stepfather’s laugh grow more and more malicious—and your mother’s hopeless screams—allow all the sounds to mix together and become your own, custom-made monster. But suddenly, you hear a sickening crack. One third of the noise comes to a jolting stop. Your heart skips a good five beats, you’re eyes pop open, and all the breath escapes your lungs. A wheezy string of swears from your detestable stepfather confirms that the worst has happened.
You jump to your feet—there’s a pocket knife in your drawer. Take it out—flip open the tiny silver blade. Don’t pretend like you haven’t been deliberating this for the past four and a half months. Take a moment for the anger to reach its peak, and for the fear to subside. It’s all quiet in the kitchen for a few moments, but you freeze when you hear the unsteady clunk of his boots swaggering towards your room.
“Kay-teeee,” you hear his drunken drawl, “come’ere sweetie, clean up this mess your goddam momma made.”
And that’s enough to make you so weak that your knees buckle and you fall to the ground, pocket knife this close to scraping your tender, bruised flesh. You hear his footsteps growing louder, he’s coming closer to your room. You know there’s no escaping.
But he stops a little short of your room. You hear your sister’s sobs come to a halt.
“Hey, there, Jennie, why were you crying?”
And now you’ve had it—hop to your feet, pocket knife closed tightly in your fist. Walk fast—there’s no turning back. It’s not so hard when you see his long, disgusting fingers scraping your baby sister’s tear-crusted cheek. Your knife finds a soft home in your stepfather’s back. Leave it there, watch for a moment as your stepfather falls to the ground with shock in his hazy eyes and the beginnings of a stream of blood form around him. Take your sister in your arms and get the hell out. No regrets—just resolve.