Run.

Years of calm.
Years of patience.
A second to prove.

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1. One

I felt the raindrop hit my forehead in the night, causing me to wake. I swear, how can you build a building if the roof doesn't even do its job? I've never stayed in a hospice, that is until four days ago. It's all his fault. All I did was stick up for my beliefs - something my mom taught me. I lie here wondering how the wonderful, kind man my mom told me love stories about was in any way similar to the man that constantly beat her and accused her of having affairs. The silence surrounds me like a blanket. Soothing.

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I wake up to the sounds of screaming and yelling. It's me. These nightmares are getting worse. How will I ever deal with life if I can't even handle the dreams I come up with? I try to clear my head of the fog so that I can remember. 

I am sitting on the settee (couch), when mom's boyfriend came back home from work, in an average mood. My mom was in the kitchen and so limped in to the living room, where I was, her leg still sore from two days ago. Oh no. Oh no no no no. I desperately tried to communicate with my mom with my eyes, yet the confusion remained on her face as her boyfriend stared at her. He cleared his throat. It was the emotion in her eyes, the fear on her face, that made her look so weak and vulnerable. She sat down next to me, knowing what was to come next, head bowed in shame. He stood up, in front of us, and suddenly I regretted not going into my room when I had the chance. He began to talk and lecture my mother about how he had no time or patience for her antics any longer, that he knew that she was cheating on him with her receptionist, and she had begun to distance herself from our family and no longer cared about him or me, because if she did, she would have gotten him his coffee. I mean, wow. Woooow, all this fuss about a pot of coffee, that he could have made himself.

He grabbed her hair, and yanked her up off of her feet and dropped her on the floor, spitting in her face. I sat there, paralysed by fear, aware of everything that was happening around me. He turned to me as if just realising I was there and nodded towards the stairs. I ran to my room. I pulled out a random backpack and packed all of my necessities in it, dialling 999. I heard shouts and cries for help down stairs and didn't say anything to whoever answered my call going back to the living room, but hiding behind the door, close enough to hear them clearly. Putting my head round, I saw my mom on the ground franticly trying to get up as he continued to shout at her, his foot on her chest. I sat there for only two minutes before the sirens sounded. He looked up, and took his foot off of her, stepping back. I heard him swear. Taking a deep breath, I stood up and went into the room, standing in front of him and sensing my mom getting up behind me. I slapped him as hard as I could, then kicked him in the balls; when he was crouched I went down to his level and said "Not my mother, you son of a bitch!" He grabbed my wrist, attempting to keep me still, but he was still weak. My mom gingerly touched my shoulder, and softly whispered "Run." I always trusted her, but I'd never have thought I would be the one to leave them. And yet, I did. I ran.

It hurts me to think about what happened to her. I gotta say though, it felt hella good to put that bastard in his place. At least the police arrived, just as I ran out of the back door with my bag, they burst in the front with their stun guns. I don't feel much when I think about what happened to him, only a sliver of emotion; hard to identify. Perhaps content.

But, you know, life goes on and I don't want to be left behind. Maybe I'll always be haunted by that day. Maybe I'll never know what happened to them after I left. Maybe I'll get over this grief. Maybe.

But I do know one thing, I am a survivor.

So, come at me life, you bitch. I'm waiting.

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