All I could hear was the sound of my heart pounding in my ears—I
just hoped he couldn’t. His dirty work boots were heavier with every step on
the carpeted floors. I could see the gun in his hands from my position under
the table.
He pulled up the tablecloth and pointed the 38 special in our faces. “I'll be back for the two of you” he slurred his words and his eyes were stained red.
He left down the hallway toward the bedrooms. I held my breath
and slowly dialed into the phone; I could hear him walking down the hall across
from me. “Dad, hurry, he has a gun” I frantically whispered into the line and
hung up.
She was scared too, but it was apparent that this had happened
to both of us before. We were seven years old, but our eyes were much older. By
this time I had seen the effects of drugs, violence, and deceit countless
times. We knew not to cry.
When her mom started screaming, I reached for her hand. We
couldn’t hear their words, just the volume behind them. After what felt like a
lifetime the front door burst open and I was finally able to breathe. I ran out
from under the table and out the front door into the cold night, still holding
her shaking hand.
A week later that house was empty, she was gone, and I never saw
her again.
