by A. M. Brooks
It is now Saturday at 12:01am. I am officially seventeen, and nothing is as I had hoped it would be. I send a quick text to Nash, letting him know that, once again, we are done. And, I mean it this time. My time is too precious to be wasted on a boy who cares more about appearances than the actual truth of a person. With our hands locked together, Oaklynn and I find the elevator and cruise to the bottom. I crumple into the waiting vehicle she had ordered for us. The small back space is crowded with the handful of balloons she grabbed on the way out.
“I’m so sorry, Saylor,” she says again. I can hear the emotion in her voice, and it takes all my strength not to cave into the storm inside me.
“I’m so mad at him, Oak,” I whisper through my clenched teeth. Seriously, I would be lost without my best friend. Despite her cold looking exterior, Oaklynn is the warmest and most loyal person I know. We’ve been friends since first grade, before she moved to Manhattan. When my dad came home and surprised us with his promotion and plans to move us to Manhattan as well, Oaklynn’s parents helped mine get settled. We were so happy to be back together.
“Your dad’s a prick,” she huffs next to me. “You’re amazing, Say. What he did has nothing to do with you and the person you are. This whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Thanks for being here,” I tell her. “Tell your mom I’m sorry we wasted the reservation and the space.”
“She won’t care.” Oaklynn smiles. “She just wanted you to have a good birthday, no matter what.”
“Your mom is awesome,” I tell her, before shifting my gaze out the window.
“Kelly is, too, Babe. She will bounce back, once she figures out how to move forward. Don’t discount her yet,” she answers. A small sliver of guilt creeps in, and I know she’s right. My mom is a victim just like me. I just wish she’d snap out of her funk and figure out what needs to be done. Mila and I are losing our spots at school, and now I know my dad is behind on our house payments as well.
By the time the black town car pulls up to my home, the small pounding in my head is now a full-blown headache. I scan the front yard, checking for unwanted paparazzi waiting to snap my picture, before opening the car door.
“Don’t forget these.” Oaklynn hands me the bouquet of balloons. It makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time, but instead, I give her a small smile and take them from her.
“Happy Birthday, Saylor.” She gets out and hugs me, holding on extra tight, because she knows I need it. I’m not ready to end the night; I don’t want to go back to my reality. And, I really don’t want to face my mom and Mila. I don’t want them to know my night was a disaster. Mom had begged me to cancel, somehow knowing this was probably going to be the result. That my heart would be crushed.
I run up the front stoop and wave over my shoulder as Oaklynn’s car pulls away from my curb. The light is on in the front entry, and it’s safe to assume my mom is still awake. I slip off my favorite pair of gold, butterfly winged heels, my sixteenth birthday gift from my parents, and tiptoe toward the stairs.
“Saylor?” My mom’s voice calls from the kitchen. I freeze, one hand on the banister, and step lightly. The instant groan from the ancient wooden floors gives me away. Within three heartbeats, my mom’s figure emerges. Kelly Torre looks haggard. For the first time in days, I take the time to actually see her. Blue smudges, evidence from lack of sleep, under her eyes contrast with her pale complexion. The freckles across the bridge of her nose are more prominent. She’s in her pajamas, her honey brown hair piled on top of her head, and a loose bathrobe hangs off her shoulders. She pulls the extra material tighter to her body. She’s lost weight. We haven’t had a meal together all week, and, looking at her now, I’m guessing she hasn’t eaten that whole time.
“How was the party, Sweetheart?” she asks, yawning at the same time. I have to fight the urge to hurl an insult or a jab. I want to shake her and ask her how she thinks it was now that I’m a social pariah. Instead, my shoulders shrug, and I choke back my emotions.
“I have a headache,” I tell her, while pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers.
“Oh.” She quickly scurries back into the kitchen. I hear bottles rattle and then she returns with two reddish orange pills. “Take these. You’ll feel better.” I hold out my hand, and she dumps them into my waiting palm.
“Thanks,” I mutter, and start ascending the stairs.
“Happy Birthday, Saylor,” she calls to me softly. My eyes slam shut because, as much as I want to crumble into a crying mess in her arms, I know there is nothing she can do about the pain twisting my insides. She isn’t the one who is responsible. But she’s here and he’s not. I don’t get the luxury to unload all my anger on the parent who deserves it. Instead of thanking her, I climb the rest of the stairs to my room.
With my back safely pressed against the closed door of my room, I finally release the balloons from my grip. I watch as the pastel colors float to the ceiling and spread out. Frustrated, I take the little pain relievers form my palm and swallow them down quickly, before washing my face in my bathroom. My body is bone tired. The week long anxiety wave I’ve been riding has now crashed. I’m drowning in unknowns. I shut off the lights and welcome the darkness. The pain in my temples throbs a little less, as I slide the material of my party dress down my body and leave it pooled on the floor of my closet. I snatch my favorite sleep shorts and tank from their drawer and dress quickly, barely making it to my bed before my legs give out. My eyes close, and my breathing shallows. Sleep is my friend, and tonight, I welcome it wholeheartedly.
It isn’t the screaming or crying that shakes me awake. It isn’t the front door being ripped from its hinges or the shattering of the glass coffee table that she is thrown into. What pulls me from the deep recesses of my dream world is the feeling that I’m suffocating. A pressure across my face yanks me from my sleep, my body jumping in response and my eyes flying open.
“Shhhh!” Mila begs me. It’s her little hand that’s covering my mouth. Tears slip down her cheeks and snot runs from her nose. Her tiny frame is shaking inside the flannel nightgown she loves to wear this time of year.
“They’re in the house. They’re hurting Mom,” her young voice cracks. I can tell a sob is waiting to escape. I’m fully awake now, my body moving in sync with my heartbeats. Blood rushes to my ears while I tiptoe across the floor and carefully move my hand to nudge the door open farther. Mila’s hand snakes out, grabbing my arm painfully, as tears fall faster and faster down her face. “No!” She mouths in silence, but damn, the words echo loudly in my brain.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my hand peeling her fingernails from my skin. I push the door open farther, but not far enough for the hinges to groan. Biting my lip, I turn my head and look out. Only the hallway light illuminates the area. I can’t see anything. I slip my leg out the door followed by the rest of my body. Carefully, I step on the boards where I know the wood floor won’t creak. When I reach the banister, that’s when I hear it. The sound of a backhanded slap. I flinch and glance back at my room. My mom cries out and all that does is earn her another smack.
“Where is he?” a dangerous and lethal voice asks.
“I swear,” she groans out, “he left. I have no idea where he is. The detectives said he had a private offshore account and may have headed to Cuba.”
Slap! Slap!
“Do not lie!” the voice gets louder, and my mom screams in response.
“I’m not! I promise. He left us!”
“Pull her up,” he commands. “Where the fuck is your husband?”
Instead of words, only noises can be heard, like she’s trying to keep her pain inside. “Who else is here? Do you want us to start looking around the house then?”
“Nobody!” she answers quickly, her words sounding garbled. “It’s my daughter’s birthday. They’re at a sleepover,” she lies.
“Daughter, huh?” the voice replies. The way it curls around the word daughter sends chills over my skin and vomit rushing
to the back of my throat. This could be very bad.
“Hit her,” the voice commands. I cringe when the loud smack triggers another howl of pain from my mom. My heart races to interfere, to call for help, but I retreat backwards, careful to step in all the right places again, and close my bedroom door softly.
“Come here.” I wave to my sister’s shaking frame. She collapses into me, instantly soaking my night shirt with her warm, wet tears. Moving us slowly toward the side of my bed, I reach for my phone and quickly hit the call button.
My phone illuminates, but No Service stares back at me.
“The fuck?” I question, turning it off and right back on.
“I think they’re doing it,” Mila whispers into my chest. “Mine didn’t work either.”
I’m about to protest, when boots thudding against the wooden stairs pull my attention.
“Down!” Not thinking, I push Mila to the carpet, wrestling her under the bed, before slamming into her. The first set of booted feet is joined by another. They yell rapid fire directions to each other in another language, and it doesn’t take a professional translator to understand their meaning. They’re looking for whoever may be home. In the confined space, I slam my hand over Mila’s mouth and keep her head tucked into my shoulder. Closer to the ground now, my ears pick up on more noises coming from downstairs. The inhumane cries and sound of flesh being pummeled and torn is unmistakable. My insides curl and threaten to rebel. My eyelids slam shut, and I squeeze Mila into me harder, hoping my shoulder can act as a barrier to cover her ears. No child should have to hear her mom in pain, let alone a thirteen-year-old.
Every instinct I possess is kept on edge while waiting for it all to be over. I replay in my brain every noise and every word I’m forced to listen to so that I can remember. The booted feet stop outside my door. Mila goes still beside me, both of us scared to even breathe. Her tiny nails dig further into my arm, making me wince, and I know I’ll have little crescent shapes in the skin after this is over. When I feel the vibration of his steps move away from the door, my body sags in relief. Minutes feel like hours as they drag by; my muscles ache and the arm cradling my baby sister’s head is numb. I’m not sure how much time has passed when the house is finally silent. The screams and grunts are done. My ears strain to listen for any movement from downstairs. Sweat covers my body as I slowly peel away from Mila.
“I heard a door close,” she whispers, her voice still shaky.
“Wait just a few minutes,” I whisper back, while flexing my arm and trying to restore blood flow. Sliding to my stomach, I peer out from underneath where the blanket drapes over the edge. Silence hums loudly in my ears. I slam my eyes closed to stop tears from leaking out. My chest squeezes in pain. I don’t want to leave this small protective bubble, and yet, I know I have to get downstairs to my mom. She’s going to need help. I need to call the police, but my body is in shock, and I’m frozen in place.
“Saylor,” Mila whispers, through more tears, next to me.
“It’s okay, Mi,” I reassure her, trying to smile, but I fail. My lips won’t curve or stop shaking. Slowly, I use my arms to crawl on my stomach out from under the bed. Tingling pain radiates from my fingers to my shoulder. I bite my lip to keep from making any noise. Mila starts to scoot out behind me, and I stop her.
“Door,” I mouth, and she halts. Adrenaline spikes through my system while I creep my way toward my door. I hold my breath and concentrate on my surroundings. Twisting the knob, I let the door push open, before sliding my head out into the hall, just like before. The lights are now completely out, and my eyes need to adjust to the pitch black.
Reaching back into my room, I grab the softball bat from behind my door, before motioning for Mila to follow me. Keeping my eyes trained on the hallway, I don’t move until I feel her body pressed behind mine.
“Stay by me,” I whisper, and she nods. We slide along the wall, avoiding the wooden planks that groan, until we get to the staircase. My stomach tightens, and my breathing grows shallow. It’s completely dark downstairs, except for the single sliver of light coming from the direction of the kitchen. Goosebumps rise on my arms and legs. Step by step, we ease our way down. My sweaty hands grip the titanium handle of the bat, twisting with the need to hit something. Once my feet hit the landing, I can hear it. The shallow breathing and muffled cries call to me, pulling me toward her.
“Wait,” I tell Mila, pulling her off to the side. “Take this and don’t look.” She takes the bat from me wordlessly, silent sobs racking her body again. She doesn’t make a sound as she crouches to the ground. Following the light from the kitchen, I tiptoe across the cold tile.
“Mom?” Her name escapes my lips, and it takes all I have not to fall apart when I see her.
“Saylor,” she whispers my name from where she lays on the ground, covered in blood, broken and bruised. Her body is cradled between the cupboards and the island where she sits half propped up.
“Mom.” I fall next to her. Taking my hand in hers, I notice she visibly winces in pain. “What do I do?”
“My phone.” She tries to lift her hand; my eyes follow the line of sight until they land on her purse. Getting up slowly, so I don’t jostle her, I grab her purse strap and yank it to the floor, cursing in my mind the whole time about its size, while my hand dives in frantically looking for the small block. My fingers slide across it, before I snatch the phone from her purse and the home screen lights up. I grab her hand and hold her thumb to the button for it to unlock.
“Saylor!” Mila’s voice frantically screams my name, breaking my concentration. My head snaps up, right as a huge, bulked up body slams into me. My head bounces off the linoleum floor, causing streaks of light in my vision. The phone slides from my grip and across the floor, while my hands push and shove at the beefy ones trying to control mine. My body thrashes against his to get free. My eyes connect with his soulless, bloodshot ones. His huge paw wraps around my neck. I instantly panic at the loss of breath. My eyes widen, and I fight back harder, using my nails to scratch and dig into his skin.
He’s temporarily shoved, when my mom throws herself over me. “You dumb bitch!” The man’s voice hollers, spit flying from his mouth, his hand raised back to throw a punch. I flinch, waiting for the impact, waiting for the pain. My eyes widen in shock when Mila’s arms swing the bat, and I watch in slow motion, until the bat connects with the back of the man’s head. He freezes, a confused look crossing his features, before his body slumps forward then crumples to the side.
“Gun!” my mom shouts, and I scramble to the man’s side, tugging the weapon out from his waist band, and slide it to her hand.
“Is he dead? Did I kill him?” Mila shrieks, falling on her knees next to me. Wrapping one hand around her, I use the other to reach for the man’s pulse. My fingers find nothing. “He’s alive,” I lie, over and over, until she stops convulsing next to me.
“What the fuck!” Another man’s voice yells from the doorway. Three gun shots ring out right next to my ear. My hands slide to cover them, but it’s too late. Warm liquid splashes against my tank and across my neck. My head buzzes, and my hearing fades. Mila’s screams sound as if I’m swimming under water. I watch, in horror, as the other man’s body slides down the wall. I scoot back across the floor, my feet slipping in blood, until my fingers reach the cell phone again.
“I’m calling the police.” I frantically pull up her screen and grab her finger, again, to unlock again.
“No.” Her voice is hoarse, her breathing sounds labored in her chest. “Matt, call Matt.”
“Who?” I want to shout because she makes no sense. We should be calling law enforcement. She needs to go to the hospital, and there is for sure, one, possibly two, dead bodies in our kitchen. “No.”
“Matt.” She stretches to reach for the phone, but stops, cradling her middle. “Call Matt, Saylor. Not the police. They can’t help us now.”
“Saylor,” Mila’s voice whispers softly next to me. Her eyes h
aven’t left the body of the man she hit with the bat. I watch her shed a layer of innocence. She’s pale and probably about to lose her mind.
“Fine.” The word falls from my lips with more venom than I planned. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping me focused at this point. I slide through her contacts to the M’s and double and triple check. “There is no one named Matt in your phone,” I tell her frustrated.
“Rogue,” she mumbles. Her eyes are heavy; she’s losing consciousness. Panic races up my spine. I don’t want her to die.
“Saylor, do something,” Mila cries next to me. She shifts, bringing our mom onto her lap and holding her head.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I slide back through her contacts.
“Rogue,” she tries to say again next to me.
“I stop on the R’s and, sure enough, ROGUE is saved in all capital letters. Without thinking, I hit the call button. It rings twice, before a man’s voice answers on the other side.
“Hello? Kell?” His voice is gruff and sleepy. I forgot it’s in the early morning hours.
“Is this Matt?” I ask quietly, swallowing to keep my voice steady.
“Who’s this?” he asks, sounding more awake. I hear a shuffle in the background, and I wonder if he’s sitting up now.
“My name’s Saylor, my mom told me to call you,” I start to tell him.
“Kelly? Is your mom, Kelly?” He asks.
“Yes.” I nod, even though he can’t see me through the phone. “She needs your help. It’s bad,” I tell him, as the tears I’d been holding back start sliding down my face in warm, wet currents.
“What happened Saylor?” he questions. There’s more shuffling in the background, and the sound of a zipper echoes in my ear. I tell him about the men who broke in and about me hiding under the bed with my sister and then finding our mom. I tell him everything that led up to this phone call.
