A loud thump resounds around the house. It’s loud enough to
tempt me to turn down my music, but I resist the urge. I learned years ago that
it’s best to ignore it and let the storm blow over. It will like always and the
thump was probably just something being thrown.
I sigh, allowing the melancholic chords of Apocalyptica to
calm my shattered nerves. This really isn’t that unusual, but with the chain of
disasters in my life, it’s more bothersome than usual. My reverie is shattered
when my mom whirls into my room, throwing my door open. Always one for
dramatics, she’s bringing the fight to me. It wouldn’t matter if the door was
locked, she would just bang on it and start screaming. Dad follows her. His
voice can easily be heard over the piercing scream of cellos. “All you want is
the money!” He shouts.
He’s not exactly lying, but I wouldn’t dare mention that. It
would just stir it more. Mom yells something back unintelligible and they stand
there, their mouths gaping like dead fishes. They’re both seeking something to
say, but people of their caliber aren’t great at expressing themselves through words.
Instead, mom huffs and lurks from the room.
Sadly, this reprieve from the noise doesn’t last long. The
yelling begins again, but this time, they’re putting on their show for the
neighbors. It really is a shock that the cops haven’t been called yet. Mom is
more than happy to announce to the world that dad’s been drinking. At least the
drinking is easier to handle than when he did pills though. I can’t help but
shake my head as I remember all the days I missed school because of his habit.
The days when mom left me here to baby sit him and no way to school in the
morning, the days cleaning up the remnants of the night, and the days in the
hospital. Yes. This is much better if not still aggravating.
Once again, my door is thrown open. “Anna!” My mom screams,
her voice carrying over the symphony coming from my computer. “He’s lost it! He’s
got the keys and he’s stealing the van.” She sounds panicked, but I don’t even
turn to acknowledge her. Had it been five years ago, I would have been afraid
due to my childlike innocence, but I’m older now and I’ve dealt with this my
entire life. He may have the keys, but he won’t do anything. If I turn and say
something, I’ll just be drawn further into the fight and used as ammo, making
it last longer.
“Give me my money!” Dad grumbles loudly from the other room.
Of course mom ignores him, spouting off stuff about calling her parents. Why do
all the female ‘victims’ always cry about calling their parents?
Dad throws the keys at her and storms out. In between pauses
in my music, I can hear mom crying and saying “I hate him” over and over.
It doesn’t matter to me though. She’ll just go back to him
and they’re both in the wrong. She loves being with someone that she can fight
with.
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