Gone

  Voices screaming. A sharp shatter of broken glass. The splintering of wood and knuckles

connecting in rage. Only a thin wall, an insufficient barrier, to block out the recurring ubiquitous

crashes and yells. Pleading, a woman’s voice is barely heard over a man’s tone tinted with burning

fire. Endless months of utter madness and I lay helpless underneath my thin sheets, shutting out the

cacophony. Sleep lies just beyond reach, my acrimony too intense to cease. The voices rise and

sleep fully retreats, bringing my senses at full height.

  Suddenly, silence spreads throughout the shaken house. I carefully draw myself out of my worn

bed, my disheveled hair limp against my forehead, and creak open the door. A hallway lies before

me, old oak floor masked with scratches and moldy holes. Indents in the tainted, graying walls

resemble the shapes of fists and arms. I reach an opening in the wall and rest my eyes upon the

wrecked kitchen. Broken glass strewn across the cracked tiles. Dents covering the blue walls. Legs

missing from the antique wooden table and chairs. Cabinet doors ripped off of their hinges. An open

fridge releasing an icy draft with spoiled leftovers dripping off of the sides and onto the floor. My

mother sobbing in the corner with lurid makeup smeared across her face and bruises arising near

her right cheekbone, forehead, and chin. Shoulders heaving, her eyes slowly draw upwards to meet

mine. One word escapes her mouth, so many emotions embedded into one syllable, it takes my

mind a moment to comprehend what she means.

  “Gone,” was all that escaped her mouth. It shudders for a second, then her eyes close, her last

breath is released, and my mother’s body collapses onto the cold, dirty ground.

  I blink. I blink again. And I’m running through the hallway, opening the back door, and sprinting out

into the frigid, midnight air to find him. She is gone, my life is gone, but he isn’t. Not yet.