ANONYMOUS

MINDEN, LA

OCTOBER 15, 1961

I hear Mama crying again.

She does it really soft, but I can still hear it. I can hear Papa shouting too. It creeps down through the thin walls of our run- down house, under the stained carpet and yellowed kitchen tiles. They’ve been there forever. The ticking sound of the clock falls in rhythm with the gentle drizzle outside. The candles haven’t even melted yet on my birthday cake, which I had blown out only minutes ago.

Being ten years old is no different than being nine. I don’t know why people make such a big deal out of having double digits. I cut myself a large slice through the thick white frosting, even though I hate vanilla.

After pouring myself a cold glass of milk, I reach for the remote and head to the living room to watch Top Cat, turning up the volume as much as possible to drown out Mama’s cries, which have only grown louder. I sit down on the couch and balance my plate on my lap, to avoid getting stains on the cushions.

I have only taken a couple of bites when there is a heavy thud. The cake remained stuck in my throat as Papa’s boots thudded above, causing the ceiling to loudly creak. I lick the icing off my thumb, my heart thudding into my chest. As much as I wanted to go upstairs, I couldn’t. I had promised her that I would stay down here, no matter what I heard. She had begged me to do it. I didn’t want to, but I did.

My birthday was perfect. Mama made me chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. She took me to the zoo. Just the week before, she had asked me to hand out invitations at school if I wanted to invite a couple of my classmates over, but I didn’t tell her that I had no friends. She thinks I’m just shy, but I don’t like people very much. I never really do. Besides, I wanted to spend the day with her.

My wrapped presents are still sitting on the kitchen table, underneath the rattling air conditioner, which caused the thin party table cloth that she had selected from the store to blow back and forth. I set my cake down on the couch and turned away from the television, still focusing my gaze down the hall, past our family pictures hanging on the peeling wall. My socks were silent against the carpet as I began to make my way down to the tiny basement, the Top Cat theme song in the background. Each step creaks underneath my weight.

I grab the chain above my head and yank on it, causing the light bulb to turn on above me.

Mama is screaming on the top of her lungs.

A crash echoes in the house.

I still hear Papa’s footsteps moving around in their room, his grunts and thumps growing louder. A basket of unfolded laundry sat on top of washing machine, next to several piles of unwashed clothes. Around me, unopened boxes and heavy tools covered in dust littered the room. My hands feel around in the dim light until I locate the safe at the very corner of the room. I quickly enter the number a couple of times before it swings open. Mama’s shrieks carry through the hallway.

Papa’s 33 caliber revolver.

Today is a special day.

I pick it up and examine it for a moment, squinting my eyes in the dim light. Licking my tongue over my scabbed lips, I check to make sure it was loaded. Only two bullets. I had watched a couple of episodes of Bonanza, and I slide the weapon under the side of my belt above my jeans and go upstairs, pretending to have a holster like the cowboys did on the show. I wish that I had a bandana to cover my nose and mouth. When I reach the landing, the smell of cigarette smoke is thick in the air. Mama loves her Camels. I think she has been smoking a lot more recently, even though she keeps telling me she’s gonna quit.

That’s the strange thing about grown ups—you can either choose to believe them or not. Either way, you end up always getting hurt.

Their bedroom door is closed.

I keep my sight on the door, raising the revolver up in the air. My fingers curl around the trigger. The door suddenly swings open, loudly banging against the wall and leaving a mark against the plaster. Papa stands in the threshold, breathing heavily. He’s covered in sweat head to toe, and his dark hair is wild and unkempt, sticking up like a porcupine. Stubble lines his chin and jaw, and he’s still dressed in his work uniform. For a moment, he leans against the threshold for a moment, before his black eyes finally fall on me. His face hardens.

I notice Mama’s crumpled form on the bedroom floor. Something isn’t right with her arm. Her brown hair is spread out all over the blood stained carpet, resembling a fan. The mirror is shattered above their dresser, new holes are visible on the wall, and one of the closet doors is hanging off its hinges.

I hold the gun as perfectly straight as I can to Papa’s head. He gives me a cold look.

”Give that to me. Now.”

I don’t say anything. Normally, when he used that tone of voice around me, I would be shaky all over from crying, because I know he’s gonna do worse, now that Mama can’t do nothing to protect me now. But I’m not this time. I think he realizes it too, because he seems surprised by my still expression. I want to place a bullet in his body for all the bruises and scratches and broken bones he’s given Mama.

“Give it to me,” he weakly says. “I’m serious.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

So am I.

He tries a different approach. “What are you doing with that? Didn’t your mother tell you to stay downstairs?”

I stare at him.

Papa takes a step towards me. He has blood underneath his fingernails. His shadow grows larger, extending on the wall. “Put that down.”

My stomach turns.

His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you hear me?” His voice slightly wavered. “Give me the gun.”

I try my best not to look at Mama. She hasn’t moved an inch. I see the bruises around her neck. My eyes burn a bit, and then I observe Papa’s filthy hands. I often think that they are no good for anything but hitting and beating people. I haven’t seen him do anything else with them, like building or fixing things. All he does is break stuff.

He keeps glancing at the revolver I’m holding. But I ain’t letting go. I take a deep, slow breath, remembering the stance of the Bonanza cowboys I wanted to be like when I got big. They never seemed to be afraid of anything. I wasn’t. I make direct eye contact with the enemy.

Papa lunges at me.

I am not afraid.

My fingers pull the trigger.

The gun goes off, and his head explodes— gigantic chunks of brain and skull flying out everywhere—landing on the carpet. His blood splatteres against the walls, soaking the floor, the door, dripping from Mama’s favorite picture frame—one that she had brought from a yard sale, a painting of roses in a vase. It hung crooked on the wall.

The dark pool of blood quickly spreads out, turning the carpet into a deep shade of crimson red. I stared at what remains of Papa’s face, wondering what his appearance was like before he had gotten the wrinkles all over his chin and forehead, like he had looked in his wedding photos. He had looked like a completely different man.

Now he looks like nobody.

I wipe the 38. caliber revolver and place it into his left palm, which was slightly open, his fingers partially clutched around the handle.

When I kneel down next to Mama, I turn her over the best I could. Grabbing a pillow from the bed, I make her sit upright against the frame. Her face is puffy, covered in bruises, and both of her shut eyes are black. The top of her dress is stained with blood, and one of her shoes is missing. I think her arm is broken. But her chest is rising up and down. My fingers touch the side of her swollen cheek. I don’t want her to see what is outside, so I get up and close the bedroom door almost all the way. I didn’t think she heard anything.

Downstairs, a commercial break comes on.

I enter her bathroom and grab a few white towels. After dampening them with hot water from the sink, I clear the dirty hair from her face and clean her up the best I could, although there is so much blood everywhere. Hastily, I begin to go through our first aid kit, but there’s nothing there in particular that would help. I glance over my shoulder, fighting water suddenly building in my eyes. She’s been out of it before, but not for this long. She usually comes to after five minutes. I run towards her and crawl under her arms. She smells like lemon.

”Mama,” I whisper in her ear, leaning my head against her shoulder. “Mama, wake up.”

I don’t like the promises she makes me keep. I try to get her to drink some water.

She doesn’t. It dribbles down her clothes. She’s knocked out cold, as usual. So I stay with her for the next fifteen minutes, my gaze on the shattered glass. I study the wedding band on her index finger, before pulling it off and throwing it out the partially open window. After bundling a few blankets around Mama, I go into my own room. I change out of my bloody jeans and T-shirt and put on my star printed pajamas. I wash my hands in the bathroom, scrubbing them with a bar of soap. It’s getting dark outside anyways, and the blood has begun to dry in the hallway.

It has stopped raining outside.

I grab Mr. Bear from my bed and my bloodied clothes. Once I reach the backyard, I pick up Papa’s container of kerosene from the garage, before dumping it all over my clothes and placing it on the grill. I light a match and watch it glow ablaze in the warm evening heat. The grass is soft against my bare feet, and I poked the burning bundle with a stick, the yellow light illuminating my face. My stomach grumbles. I can use a snack.

Mr. Bear watches me on the steps. I scatter the smoldering ashes across the bushes, before grabbing and placing him on the couch next to me in the living room. Yogi Bear is currently on, and I pick up my plate and devour my birthday cake during the episode, vanilla icing collecting underneath my chin. I guzzle down my milk too fast, holding the glass with both hands. A heavy belch escapes my mouth. I place my dirty dishes in the sink, wiping the froth that had gathered on my upper lip.

I glance at the clock. It is eight thirty.

I frantically run upstairs to check on Mama. Papa lays as still as ever, and I hop over him with ease. This time, I curl under the blanket with Mama, who is slightly slumped over. I leaned my head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat; her shallowed breaths. For a moment, I ponder what to do, hearing the AC turn off downstairs. My stomach drops once I observe her still position. She’s been out for an hour. She hasn’t moved.

I need her here with me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I have to.”

She’d understand. Once I get to my feet, I go to the nightstand and pick up the landline. My fingers slightly shake as I spin the rotary dial.

A lady’s raspy voice is audible on the other line. “911, what is your emergency?”

“My mama’s hurt bad,” I said, cradling the receiver in my hands. The yellow curly cord dangles near my elbow.

“Where are you? Are you in a safe place?”

”I’m in my mama’s bedroom,” I softly replied. “Please come. She’s hurt real bad.”

”Are you with someone?”

”Yeah.”

“What’s your address, sweetheart?”

I gave it to her, ignoring the shaking in my voice. “Please come.”

“Tell me what happened. Do you know who hurt your mother?”

I glance at the hallway outside the door. “No.”

“Help is coming soon. Don’t move. I need for you to stay on the line with me, darling.”

”I can’t,” I answer. “I’ve got to go.”

Before she could say anything else, I hang up and crawl on all fours on the floor to Mama. I curled into a ball next to her, shivering as I wrapped the blanket tighter around us.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I whisper. “I can’t keep my promise anymore.” I squeeze her hand. “You won’t get mad, will you?”

She faintly stirs. She’ll wake up soon. I place a kiss on her cheek before turning on the light in the hallway. I kneel down next to Papa. Some of the blood is still moist around the remnants of his skull. I stick my index finger into the puddle, making sure that my nail is coated in it. I place it in my mouth, savoring the thick metallic taste, mixed with the sweetness of the vanilla cake I just had.

I can’t help but smile.