The Mouse Strikes Back
Fifteen year old Mouse thought the twilight sky beautiful, as she walked wearily home from babysitting. She reached the walkway of their two family condo and dug absently through her purse for keys. Suddenly, the outraged, drunken voice of her father, pierced her reverie. Adrenaline slammed through her veins, and her mind whirled.
Had she finished her chores? Yes. Was Charles home? Yes. Shit. Did he do his? Probably not, although hell, it could just be 'the look' on her brother's face that set Pop off.
Spurred by fear, she jogged the last few feet of the condo's walkway, petrified by the thought of her brother caught alone with their volatile, inebriated father. Her nervous fingers fumbled the keys and she dropped them. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, and she was in.
Their grey tabby, George, padded down the steps, yowling his demand for freedom. She let him go. She didn't blame the cat, she wanted to flee also.
Mouse moved up the steps to their home on the second floor. She tried to gauge the depth of her father's anger and whereabouts by his voice, maybe she could avoid him. She needed to locate her brother first, and desperately wanted to believe Charles had quietly hidden somewhere in their apartment.
The upstairs door stood ajar, and the limited view it afforded Mouse depicted a monstrous scene. Her father had backed her twelve year old brother into a corner, their dining room table between them. Charles looked completely demoralized, as his blue eyes frantically darted to and fro, searching for a way past this drunken madman now masquerading as their father.
"Loo' me in the eyessh when I'm talkin' to ya' boy!" Barked their father, smacking his palm against the table. "Who do ya' thin' yer dealin' wit', Huh?"
Engrossed in his alcohol fueled tirade, he didn't notice her in the doorway, nor as she stepped from the landing into the hall. It was then she realized her father was swinging his belt in his hand, and his arm had begun to rise.
Something in Mouse utterly broke at that moment. Anger, blistering hot and red, rose and replaced any trepidation she may have felt. She only knew she had, had to protect her brother.
She glanced around the hall, and spied the green serving bowl she had filled with dried flowers just this morning. Without thinking she grabbed the bowl, and threw. The ceramic bowl whizzed past her father's head, shattering against the wall beside him. He jumped, stunned, and turned to stare open-mouthed at her.
"Moussh? Dessh'ray...wha?" He managed to croak, puzzled, before a blue glass ashtray slammed into his chest.
The impact caused him to stumble backward a few steps and fall into the kitchen counter, where he struck his elbows, and his knees buckled.
Mouse grabbing her brother's hand, pulled him behind her, Pop still had the belt and she knew he would hesitate to strap her, but not her brother. She was a 'woman' and Pop had principles. Well, she'd use those principles to her advantage now.
She shoved her brother toward the door and screamed, "Get out! Go to the Trolley Stop! Get your bike, I'll meet you there in a few minutes. Go! Run!"
Her brother dazed, gaped at her. She could sense his confusion at her newfound courage, but she shook her head and pushed again, "Not now! Move! He's gonna be more pissed- GO!" This time, Charles ran.
Mouse had never felt such clarity- and rage.
Anything that wasn't too bulky to throw, found its way into her hand. Bric brac, her Pop's German stein collection, tchotchkes- all of it she let fly. Her father sputtered curses and tried, with alcohol dulled reflexes, to dodge the improvised missiles; but much of it hit the mark... and she didn't care. She was devoid of everything but her fury.
Until she whipped the china serving tray, frisbee style, and it thwacked her father in the cheek. The flesh promptly split and blossomed crimson. Her father yelped as he cupped his injury, blood seeping through his fingers; his eyes shifted, turning cold, and the belt snicked in his hand.
The universe stopped. She gasped, and somehow she resisted the urge to go to him. To beg his forgiveness. Instead, she drew herself straight, and jutted her chin toward the belt.
"What? You want to hit me, Pop? Beat me like you do Charles? Go ahead! C'mon, you drunk asshole! I'm right here! Well?"
Her father blinked, transfixed, his eyes heavy with accusation and galaxies of hurt, slowly released his grip, and allowed the belt to slip from his hand.
Mouse, silent now in her defiance, turned and fled into the night...
*All concrit, suggestions, and discussion are welcome!
**Thanks for popping in and reading!
*** Every word of this, unfortunately is true.
****Thank you Irig_rorrim for being my second set of eyes!
Had she finished her chores? Yes. Was Charles home? Yes. Shit. Did he do his? Probably not, although hell, it could just be 'the look' on her brother's face that set Pop off.
Spurred by fear, she jogged the last few feet of the condo's walkway, petrified by the thought of her brother caught alone with their volatile, inebriated father. Her nervous fingers fumbled the keys and she dropped them. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, and she was in.
Their grey tabby, George, padded down the steps, yowling his demand for freedom. She let him go. She didn't blame the cat, she wanted to flee also.
Mouse moved up the steps to their home on the second floor. She tried to gauge the depth of her father's anger and whereabouts by his voice, maybe she could avoid him. She needed to locate her brother first, and desperately wanted to believe Charles had quietly hidden somewhere in their apartment.
The upstairs door stood ajar, and the limited view it afforded Mouse depicted a monstrous scene. Her father had backed her twelve year old brother into a corner, their dining room table between them. Charles looked completely demoralized, as his blue eyes frantically darted to and fro, searching for a way past this drunken madman now masquerading as their father.
"Loo' me in the eyessh when I'm talkin' to ya' boy!" Barked their father, smacking his palm against the table. "Who do ya' thin' yer dealin' wit', Huh?"
Engrossed in his alcohol fueled tirade, he didn't notice her in the doorway, nor as she stepped from the landing into the hall. It was then she realized her father was swinging his belt in his hand, and his arm had begun to rise.
Something in Mouse utterly broke at that moment. Anger, blistering hot and red, rose and replaced any trepidation she may have felt. She only knew she had, had to protect her brother.
She glanced around the hall, and spied the green serving bowl she had filled with dried flowers just this morning. Without thinking she grabbed the bowl, and threw. The ceramic bowl whizzed past her father's head, shattering against the wall beside him. He jumped, stunned, and turned to stare open-mouthed at her.
"Moussh? Dessh'ray...wha?" He managed to croak, puzzled, before a blue glass ashtray slammed into his chest.
The impact caused him to stumble backward a few steps and fall into the kitchen counter, where he struck his elbows, and his knees buckled.
Mouse grabbing her brother's hand, pulled him behind her, Pop still had the belt and she knew he would hesitate to strap her, but not her brother. She was a 'woman' and Pop had principles. Well, she'd use those principles to her advantage now.
She shoved her brother toward the door and screamed, "Get out! Go to the Trolley Stop! Get your bike, I'll meet you there in a few minutes. Go! Run!"
Her brother dazed, gaped at her. She could sense his confusion at her newfound courage, but she shook her head and pushed again, "Not now! Move! He's gonna be more pissed- GO!" This time, Charles ran.
Mouse had never felt such clarity- and rage.
Anything that wasn't too bulky to throw, found its way into her hand. Bric brac, her Pop's German stein collection, tchotchkes- all of it she let fly. Her father sputtered curses and tried, with alcohol dulled reflexes, to dodge the improvised missiles; but much of it hit the mark... and she didn't care. She was devoid of everything but her fury.
Until she whipped the china serving tray, frisbee style, and it thwacked her father in the cheek. The flesh promptly split and blossomed crimson. Her father yelped as he cupped his injury, blood seeping through his fingers; his eyes shifted, turning cold, and the belt snicked in his hand.
The universe stopped. She gasped, and somehow she resisted the urge to go to him. To beg his forgiveness. Instead, she drew herself straight, and jutted her chin toward the belt.
"What? You want to hit me, Pop? Beat me like you do Charles? Go ahead! C'mon, you drunk asshole! I'm right here! Well?"
Her father blinked, transfixed, his eyes heavy with accusation and galaxies of hurt, slowly released his grip, and allowed the belt to slip from his hand.
Mouse, silent now in her defiance, turned and fled into the night...
*All concrit, suggestions, and discussion are welcome!
**Thanks for popping in and reading!
*** Every word of this, unfortunately is true.
****Thank you Irig_rorrim for being my second set of eyes!