The veins in his neck begin to stand out. Next, the pulsing vein on his forehead will appear.
Oh, God! Time to get away. Don’t want to be near him. Danger!
Sally’s churning stomach begins to reject what she ate earlier for dinner. She swallows back vomit as she notices her father’s arms swinging violently in the empty air called space. His gesticulating intensifies along with his Irish temper. She knows his arms have much power behind them. Each family member has taken his or her turn being her father’s punching bag. He does not care whom he turns his wrath upon when he gets in one of his moods—whoever is within striking distance suffices.
Grimacing, Sally knows that his mighty hands long to come in contact with something that they can slug until there is nothing left to pound.
Get away! Leave! Save yourself!
The beatings are bad enough, but the thrashings…they are terrifying! Consumed by one of these furies, Sally’s father has no self-control and beats his victim until they escape or are too physically broken to respond. Sally senses this level of fury and her father’s need to batter someone.
How long will it take before he kills one of us with his rage?
Guiltily, she is thankful that she will be spared this time.
Thank God, I’m outside his reach.
It will be her mother’s turn. Based on her father’s ire, the attack promises to be far worse than any Sally has endured—of this she is certain. She feels inadequate, knowing that she cannot help.
Why isn’t there someone to save me and make this nightmare end?
This person doesn’t exist, though.
How can I make this monster go away before he destroys us? How?
Feeling helpless, she turns and walks silently down the hallway towards her room. Catching sight of her image in a mirror on the wall, she stops, transfixed by the gruesomeness reflected back at her. The entire left side of her face is distorted. Her left eye is nearly swollen shut, encircled by a blended palette of black, purple, red and yellow splotches where the worst of the bruising is. Absentmindedly, her hand raises to caress the area. The minute it makes contact, her image transforms back to normal.
Another memory.
Sally grimaces.
That’s what he did to me last time.
Turning from her reflection, she continues down the hallway, passing her brother Eric’s room. He is preoccupied, playing with G. I. Joes.
Look how he’s gone to great lengths to arrange his soldiers just so. He’s trying to block out what’s happening around him.
She pauses for a moment in his doorway, marveling at his innocence, envying his naiveté. Eric, her junior by two years, is still too young to fully comprehend what is wrong with their family.
I know he’s aware that something is wrong, but am grateful that he doesn’t know just how dangerous the situation is. I’m sure he’s affected more than he lets on. Wish I knew how to explain things to him without hurting him.
She does not though, so she remains silent.
Every day I feel like a soldier just trying to survive on the battlefield.
Sally feels like a soldier. Eric plays with toy soldiers. Their situation is always on their minds, and yet their father’s anger is the elephant never discussed. It sits plainly in the middle of the room, taunting and mocking them, yet they cannot acknowledge it, for if they do, they will have to face just how dire their situation is.
Better to ignore it and stay out of the line of fire as much as possible.
Sally cringes, remembering the family members’ endless array of broken bones, bruises and casts. Apparently they all sucked at staying out of her father’s way.
Her father’s anger has taught Sally well. She has learned to keep a low profile and keep her head down on the battlefield, lest she get it shot off. It has educated her to walk the line and do exactly what is expected and demanded of her—always—without question or having to be told twice.
In school this serves her well. She is an overachieving student who goes above and beyond what is asked of her. Her teachers often openly praise her efforts and use her work as an example to the other students. She loves getting their approval and seeing her work posted on the bulletin boards with A+’s written across the top. Sally lives to please. Her exuberance also serves to keep up the appearance that all is well on her home front. People think she has a normal family— straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Sally shakes her head.
Normal is just a state of mind.
She leaves her brother’s doorway and continues down the hallway. Entering her room, she closes the door behind her. Seeking refuge, she climbs in bed and pulls the covers over her head in an attempt to block the sounds coming from the other room. The disagreements always follow the same pattern: the raising of voices, amplified shouting and accusations followed by the unmistakable sound of the first blow.
Sally hears the terrible yelling escalate in volume. She cannot bear to listen to the ear-piercing cries, knowing what will come next. The pitch becomes higher and shriller until she can no longer hear herself think. This is far more intense than other battles.
Somehow I must stop this. I have to do something!
Summoning courage she does not know she possesses, she leaves the safety of her bed, opens her bedroom door and yells, “Stop! Stop fighting!”
Her outcry is met with momentary silence. The awful, dreaded pause in the storm makes her want to disappear.
What have I done?
Her father rounds the corner in an instant, his face a blotchy crimson red. He rushes down the hallway towards her with alarming speed. “What?! What did you say?!”
Terrified, Sally slams and locks her bedroom door. Backing away, she hopes it will hold, but knows it will not. The explosion comes—as expected. Shards of splintered wood erupt into her room as her father crashes through the door and races towards her. crashes through the door and races towards
Blessedly, her memory stops there.
* * * * *
Sally opens her eyes and begins picking up her masturbatory toys. That’s what her husband James calls them—toys. She swings her legs over the side of the hammock, puts on her robe and, toys in hand, walks back to the house, shivering a bit at the cool breeze.
Crossing the lawn, Sally realizes that although it haunts her, she feels at ease with her past. There she knows what will transpire, where, when and how it will occur. Like a frequently viewed movie, she watches the reels play out repeatedly, gaining a certain amount of comfort in knowing how they will end.
Sally cannot help but question.
How did my marriage manage to survive?
While pondering, she realizes that getting through the tough challenges together is what made James’ and her relationship stronger.
“Divorce,” Sally mutters aloud. The word leaves a vile taste in her mouth.
What a nasty word. Why do so many people get divorced?
She remembers back to when she was first familiarized with the concept, recalling her “sleepover”