by Robert Duncan

Created on: September 16, 2009

My mother couldn't save me from the beatings, she could barely save herself. I wished for the day the cruelty would end. My wish was granted on my fifteenth birthday.

On that afternoon, as my mother prepared my birthday dinner, my father stumbled into the house, stinking of alcohol and violence. He didn't speak; he just glared at me and my mother with those fierce, bloodshot eyes. Staggering into the kitchen he stumbled into my mother, and shoved her against the hot stove. As she tried to catch her balance she touched the hot stove top, burning her hand, and crying,

"Curse you to hell, you drunken bastard!"

He shoved her again,

"Curse me will you? You clumsy, stupid bitch! I'll teach you to curse me."

He picked up the iron poker standing near the oven and raised it over his head. Before he could strike her I grabbed his thick arm and twisted as hard as I could. He dropped the weapon and turned toward me with a sneer,

"Well boy, you think you can fight like man? Alright then, let's fight."

I was nearly his height but he was a thick, muscular man with arms and hands toughened by years of laboring in the mills. I had no chance against him.

He lunged at me with a heavy fist. I ducked the blow and in his stupor he lost his balance and fell to the floor. He rose to one knee and I picked up the iron poker and yelled to my mother to run. Instead she jumped between us screaming,

"No!, Stop! Please!"

My father grabbed her with one arm and tossed her aside like a rag doll. Then he reached for me and shouted,

"You little bastard! You'll threaten me with a poker, will you? I'll kill the both of you!"

I wanted to run but could not leave my mother. I had to stand and fight. He grabbed my arm but I got one good swing with the poker cracking him atop his head.

Momentarily stunned, his grip loosened, and I twisted away. He grabbed at me again but missed, and I ran into the hallway, hoping he would chase me and leave my mother alone.

I opened the basement door and hid behind it. I prayed he would see the open door and would think I had fled down the basement stairs. Seconds later I felt his lumbering footsteps approaching. He paused at the top of the steps, just inches away from where I hid behind the door. He shouted down the stairs into the basement,

"You can't stay down there forever. I'll get you, and when I do you'll pay little dog!"

My mother ran from the kitchen pleading,

"Leave him alone! He did nothing!"

My father yelled,

"I'm not done with you, bitch!"

I jumped from

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