As she lay there between the cold sheets, she knew what was about to happen in the room down the hall. She had seen that glint in his eye as she served him dinner. As he chugged down his vodka with his boiled potatoes and portion of beef, she had watched it fester in his eyes. There would be no stopping him once he found the one thing that aggravated him enough to explode and it was almost like he was searching for that as he ground his dinner between his teeth. Her father was always saved the best part, marbled with the most fat; always saved the biggest portion of what meager meat they had too. Mama only took enough to feed a mouse and doled out just enough so that her children wouldn’t go to bed hungry.
It didn’t matter because they woke up hungry—only to be greeted with oatmeal made with water and stretched unbelievably thin. Anna dreamed of a hint of cinnamon or even a small teaspoon of cream on the top to sweeten the stale taste of the goo her mother called oatmeal.
But he got the best, he good-for-nothing father. She couldn’t understand why—he was such a horrible person, not even a man and she wasn’t sure that he deserved the title of being human either. When he was around, he was drunk or asleep and even that was a rare occasion. But Mama didn’t seem to do anything about it and Anna could never understand why she put up with it.
It was then that she heard it begin. A small jingle of brass and the swift wisp of leather against cloth, the crack of leather as it snapped together in anger. “Damn it Lucille, how many times have I told you not to do that?” He paused and swallowed hard, “Huh woman? Answer me goddammit!”
“Frank, honey—please. You’re drunk. Let’s just go to bed. I’m sure—”
“You’re sure what?” He cut her off, “Sure you won’t hang my shirts up like that again? Well you damn well ain’t going to and I plan on making sure of that!”
“No, please—Frank, please don’t,” her mother whimpered. Anna knew it was of no use and so did her mother. Her father would start limbering toward her mother—belt in the air and ready to strike. He would hit her with it until it flew out of his calloused hands and then beat her with his fists until she crumpled at his feet.
But there was something different tonight. Something didn’t seem right. The muflled sounds of her mother’s crying led to gasping breaths and then died out. Something was not right at all—
“Stupid bitch…” Came out with a few other mumbled phrases but it was all she could really distinguish. Then she heard a strange noise, it sounded as though her father had kicked a sack of dirty laundry across the floor. This might have been normal any other night but Anna knew there wasn’t any laundry left. She had done it all earlier.
The door slammed shut and there was nothing; silence. Terrified and silent as she could muster, Anna rose from her bed. Her parents door was wide open and as she grew closer, she saw what her father had kicked across the floor. Her eyes came to rest on the mass on the floor; there lay her moth’s body lifeless and cooling beside the bed.
And she began to scream…
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