I Can't Protect You

 *The following is based on true events to the best of my capability. Trigger warnings: alcoholism, domestic violence, childhood trauma, racism.

It’s past my bedtime; maybe even around midnight or so. What happens most nights in our small furnished attic, blue house converted into apartments I feel shouldn’t be happening. Attending the Lutheran church with my Grandma since I was born nine years ago and moving practically every year since has taught me much. Just the year before I learned everyone had these expected roles and attitudes for me to play. I deemed I was their slave more than their niece, grandchild, or daughter. A couple of years before that, I wished I could wake up white. I’m a child who’s been forced to put childhood on the back burner. Mom-blue eyed, blond haired, only daughter out of four children-is intoxicated along with her bar friend/coworker/sometimes lover?/my future half-sister’s Aunt Bonnie. My bed faces away from the living room, jetting out of the wall that holds my view of the space in front of the bathroom. A bathroom with an accordion door just like at Grandma’s house where I’m sent to every weekend and summer. Although the apartment has two bedrooms, Mom and Bonnie have their mattress on the living room floor in front of the loose fabric, low to the floor couch, and beside the wooden cart holding our small VCR TV. My door’s sliver provides me with what I’ve been tracking for hours. Loud, angry, annoying chatter progresses into harsh name calling which ignites violence. Perhaps in the length of time it takes for a Marborrow, Mom and Bonnie’s bodies clash into each other like bombs. They are vicious. They are bitter. They are reckless, annoying, and frightening. They are pure evil to one another. Unforgiving, nagging, and making a “mountain out of a molehill” kind of people. I despised, feared, and loathed them, especially the one who was supposed to be protecting me. I feel like, ‘This isn’t right, this shouldn’t be happening, why doesn’t Mom ever stop? Why doesn’t she ever just let go? When will they ever just SHUT UP!?!’ I’m angry. I’m terrified. I grow to hate Mom, especially after she tucks me in at night and says “I love you.” In my most formative years I’ve gathered Mom loves Bud Light more than anything. Both of these women are strong; yet; Mom is a boulder. She is ruthless. I recognize not only the progression of the evening but its percussion: the location of the thud on the floor, the strain of muscles being abused, the grunts from the throat under a heavy arm, the scrap of flesh receiving a rugburn…Then the worst comes. The silence. Silence is not peace; it is the eye of the storm. Turning my head to the left I can see (or perhaps I am standing now from all the adrenaline) Mom has pinned Bonnie down. She sits over Bonnie’s older, thinner body on all fours while her hands (or left forearm) puts all of their strength around Bonnie’s neck. Her brown hair is swirled around her with sweat and her brown eyes are filled with fear. A new crux forms as Bonnie faces me yelling: “SAMANTHA GET YOUR MOM OFF OF ME! GET HER OFF OF ME! I CAN’T BREATHE! I can’t breathe…” I am speechless (or am I?) If I dare say anything Mom will come after me! I’m not strong enough! Am I screaming for Mom to stop while rivers of tears and snot run into my mouth? Or am I petrified like I’ve resorted to a number of times? Does Bonnie's face change color? Is her pale, white skin now turning a hue of purple and blue? I hear her clenched throat. I hear her barely make out anything. BUT WHAT CAN I DO?! By the time it takes for my prefrontal lube to function, Mom slightly loosens her grip which gives Bonnie a chance. She’s able to put Mom in her place, but this time also trying to end the situation by rasping, “I’M DONE, LINDA! I’M DONE! STOP IT!” Do I try to help by holding a flawing limb at bay? I don’t remember. Regardless it most likely ended with Mom yelling at me to go back to bed because what happens out there is ‘never any of my business.’ From that moment on I decided I HAD to do something.