… And This is Now

“Ahhhhhhh!” My five-year-old brother’s wail pierced the air, breaking into sobs as he scrambled from beneath the kitchen table, hands clamped over his head, and tears pouring down his cheeks. Matchbox cars abandoned behind him.

Both of my sisters, several years younger than me, quietly turned their attention from the television. Their mournful expressions as my father entered the room, a mix of relief while they watched the scene unfold, grateful it wasn’t them. 

Levi kept crying, his finger jabbing first at our youngest brother, then at the radio lying on the floor amidst the Matchbox cars where he’d been playing. To one side stood Joey, his lower lip trembling as he sucked it in, only for it to pop out again. His breath stifled, fighting the urge to cry.

We used to teasingly call him “Toe-headed Joe,” with hair so blond it was nearly white and eyes so blue they could pull you to the edge of time itself—and leave you stranded. He was as sweet as a cherub and worked tirelessly to make our father proud. Most kids were good for the sake of earning a pat on the head; we were good because our lives depended on it.

There were five of us, and I was the eldest at fifteen. My mom disappeared on Thanksgiving. My dad said he woke up and she was just gone. The question that haunted me was whether she’d left on her own—or in a gunny sack, slung over his shoulder while we slept. I’d thought about calling the police, but the last time I did, there’d been hell to pay.

If I was wrong again, accusing my old man of murder would cost me dearly. And besides, Mom warned me, if I ever turned him in, I’d never see my siblings again. The state would dismantle us—five kids? No one in their right mind would take that on. So I stayed, made it my mission to protect them.

As time progressed, it was once again time to pay the piper. The kids made amends for the stress my dad was under—working all the time, stealing to keep the power on and food in their stomachs. I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink. There wasn’t enough, and my father would mark the milk carton with a pen and count the graham crackers. I’d usually visit friends’ homes, and they’d make me something.

Truth be told, I never really was too hungry anyway. As long as my shirt was long enough to cover my cinched up pants, nobody noticed my prominent ribs.

And here we are—Joey’s turn to face the demon. My father darted across the room, snatching him up by one arm and jerking him off the floor. Ten little piggies wiggled in the air, searching for a platform as Joey twisted one way, then the other, under the strain of his overextended arm. His round, pink cheeks flushed brightly as his huge eyes beckoned me for a fleeting second, begging as he jostled past.

My father stomped up the stairs, my dangling brother screaming for his mommy—a mommy who wouldn’t come to his rescue. She never did. She used to watch in silence when these scenes played out. I could never tell if she agreed with the punishments or if she was as afraid as we were. Now, it didn’t matter.

The footsteps reverberated above us. Levi had stopped crying, his attention fixed on the commotion, along with Lara and Penny. All three stared at me, their eyes focused as if I were their savior, their shield. There was no room for fear—I was their defender.

THUD! 

THUMP!

Without pausing to question, I knew it was the sound of the toddler’s body hitting the wall before bouncing on the bed. The eerie silence that followed was broken only by his delayed cries—I figured the impact must have knocked the wind out of him.

“I’ll give you something to cry about!” my father bellowed. But before he could lash out with his belt—before he could even pull it completely free from his beltloops—a sound erupted, so loud and abrupt it shook my eardrums from the inside out...

I’ll never forget the look of shock and surprise on my father’s face as he turned to face me one last time. The gun fired again, its weight hot and heavy in my hands, almost as if larger, stronger hands had enveloped mine—forcing my finger back, repeatedly pulling the trigger. Each round fired was punctuated by a sharp pop that echoed through the house.

click. click. click.

It all happened in slow motion. The surprise on my father’s face shifted to realization, then sadness, and finally the grim understanding that he’d been shot. Confusion clouded his features as he collapsed to the floor, the blue eyes he’d passed down to me and my brothers staring blankly ahead.

An absurd silence hung in the air, shattered only by Joey’s screech. He wrenched his arm from my grasp. That’s when I noticed the gun still clutched in my other hand. It slipped from my grip, landing with a thud in the spreading pool of blood around my father’s body. The deep crimson stain deepened, growing larger as it seeped through the fawn-colored carpet threads.

I knew I’d never see them again. That part was certain, a price I was willing to pay. But had I saved them—or just thrown them into something worse? I’d freed them from my father’s rage, the fear that filled every corner of our home. What if the foster system became its own kind of hell? What if the girls were raped? What if the boys were beaten, left to fend for themselves until they turned to drugs or crime? Had I only traded one nightmare for another? The thought was too late.

I sat alone in my new surroundings. The room was small and stark, its white ceiling stained with dried, rusty-yellow puddles that bled out like old wounds. Four dingy gray walls closed in around me, scuffed and marked with graffiti—dried blood, ink blots, or both. In the corner, ants wrestled over a tiny scrap of something unrecognizable. Outside the teensy window in the heavy door, echoes carried faintly through the air.

“Did you see her? Is she ugly?” another voice jeered, followed by snickering.

“I wouldn’t kick her out of bed!” someone else called, their voice dripping with mockery.

“You don’t kick anything out of bed,” another snapped, “I’ve seen your cooties!”

More howling erupted, and the harsh scrape of a heavy door grinding open cut through the noise.

Standing in the corner, my head tilted forward, pressing against both walls, my arms hung at my sides, uselessly dead weight. My emotions weren’t just shut down—they were depleted, sucked dry until nothing but vacant space remained. I waited—not for salvation, not for hope, but for the relentless ticking of time to finally wind down. For the springs of this cruel, mechanical world to finally snap. No more fear of what’s coming next. Only silence. Only calm. Only a genuine freedom.

“Hello,” a kind voice chirped behind me, bright and lilting like a chickadee gifted with speech, carrying a hint of British flair. “You must be Joy. I’ve heard about you.”

Taking my time, I slowly turned and faced a small-statured woman dressed in a dark suit and white lace blouse. A reincarnated Quaker from the mid-1600s? a voice inside chided. 

“Hi,” I croaked, my voice scratchier than expected. Considering I hadn’t had anything to drink in a while, it wasn’t a shock. I cleared my throat and tried again, but the effort only made it worse.

“Guards, a smidge of drinking water, please?” her voice was light and melodic. The response came in the form of magpie-like chatter as others joined in, their voices overlapping down the corridor.

“Water!” the unseen contributors echoed, their voices tinged with a biting edge and carried by a Cockney girl’s playful undertone. “Can I ‘ave me some water?”

When the woman received the water, she thanked the guard with a polite nod and opened it. “It isn’t cold, I’m afraid,” she extended it toward me.

I gladly accepted, gulping it down without bothering to come up for air. As the last drop of water slid down my throat, I pulled the bottle away and gasped, handing it back.

She smiled, “I’m afraid you needed that even more than I thought.” Setting the bottle on the floor, she eased herself onto the thin, padded mattress and patted beside her.

Seeing no other alternative—or any reason to question what difference it made—I settled next to her. Her face, so generously kind, seemed like it must belong to someone’s grandmother. I imagined her spending time baking cookies, telling stories, and watching her grandchildren dip the treats into milk, leaning in eagerly to hang on her every word. That’s what I pictured a grandmother would be like.

I wouldn’t know—I never met mine.

But she didn’t tell a story. She gave me something more. Taking my hand between hers, she gazed into my eyes with a tenderness I failed to process. “You did what you felt you had to do to escape,” she said. It wasn’t a question—it was a truth, spoken as if she’d been there herself. As if she had seen… and heard… and lived it.

Solemnly, I nodded, my head heavy with shame.

“But do you regret it?” she asked, her voice soft but probing.

I gave it some thought. I considered how I’d never have a chance at a normal life. How my siblings would remember me—not as their protector, but as the one who killed their father. Most of all, I thought about how they’d never be together again—because of me.

“If there was any way to take it back, I would—” my voice cracked, breaking under the weight of my words. “In a heartbeat!”

The dam broke. All the pent-up anxiety, fear, and guilt came pouring out at once, spilling everywhere. My body, drained and trembling, collapsed onto the floor in what had to be the most pathetic display of defeat imaginable.

The woman in black watched me quietly before asking, “Would that make you happy?”

“I—I don’t know,” I stammered, my mind sifting through fleeting scenarios of what happiness might look like. The truth was, I didn’t know how contentment felt. But my brothers and sisters—they were young. They still had their whole lives to figure it out, to grasp something better. Maybe, if given a second chance, my dad could have met someone kind. Maybe we could have become a real family.

“Perhaps,” I added, as I pulled the bottom of my shirt up to wipe my nose. “Happier than I am. I killed the man who gave me life. Maybe—maybe it’s possible someone could have taught him to be a good dad. Maybe if I’d been there just one second sooner…”

——-

The sisters were sprawled on the couch, watching their favorite show and tumbling over each other in giggling fits. Levi lay on his stomach beneath the table, his Matchbox cars spread out in front of him. His cheeks puffed as he made sputtering noises with his tongue between his lips.

Nearby, Joey had Dad’s headphones on, plugged into the radio on the table, just above Levi’s head.

That’s what had happened! Joey had gotten carried away, jamming with his head bobbing, that he didn’t notice the radio dragged from the table!

As my father stepped through the front door, a gasp swept into the living room, carrying with it the unmistakable presence of his arrival. Joey froze—he knew his dad was home. So did Levi.

Levi pushed himself to his feet as Joey bolted toward the door, and I raced across the room, desperate to prevent the calamity.

It all happened so fast—the radio crashing, the heavy thump, the shrill scream, the look of shock on Joey’s face. And then, in an instant, he was suspended by one arm, disappearing from view. His big, innocent eyes locked on mine, wide, silently pleading for intervention.

I charged up the stairs, bounding two at a time, with my teeth clenched and ready to fight—then, I froze. The first time, I had lost track of thoughts and time. I hadn’t even consciously done anything. Maybe I shouldn’t go up this time and should call someone instead. I could pretend to be a neighbor—it was loud enough, and the windows were open. Someone else could be the witness. They didn’t have to know it was me.

And then, I heard it.

THUD! 

THUMP!

It wasn’t over. Not yet. I needed to call the police. My hand hovered over the phone before I picked it up, dialing 9-1-1 as three sets of eyes locked on me, unblinking.

And then, I heard it again—

KACHUNK!

“Get up, you sissy!”

My fingers fumbled on the keypad. Three digits—why was it taking so long to connect?

“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?” the operator’s voice crackled through the receiver, calm and detached—a jarring contrast to the chaos around me.

Before I could force out a word, my dad stormed down the stairs, his leather belt wrapped tightly around his fist. Sweat streamed down his forehead, his face contorted with fury. Work boots pounding down the steps sent a shudder through my entire being.

My father didn’t yell. He never needed to. His presence more deafening than any words could have been, like the reverberation of a landslide on the mountainside. unconsciously at the phone in my hand, the operator’s voice crackling through the receiver.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

My breath hitched. The little ones’ attention honed on me now—not just his, but my siblings’, their needs pressing in, compelling me to speak. My grip tightened around the phone, my knuckles whitening as I forced my hand to remain steady.

And then he spoke, low and deliberate, his voice an animalistic growl. “Hang it up.”

I acted without hesitation.

The belt slapped his palm, the sound promising a pain of which I wasn’t yet acquainted. I wondered if anyone outside even suspected what was about to happen—or if they’d even care. The walls seemed to close in, the room shrinking until there was nowhere left to go. In that moment, it was just him and me—the only two souls in existence, locked in a silent battle where no one else would intervene.

———

The lights were harsh as I opened my eyes. Only one managed to open fully, the other barely a slit, but it was enough to take in the room. Clean, white walls surrounded me, with a cabinet stocked with hospital gear tucked into the corner. Two uncomfortable-looking chairs sat at the foot of the bed, beside a large window. Sunshine struggled to seep through the partially drawn blinds, casting faint stripes across the tiled floor. A hospital. Not juvie this time.

As if on cue, the heavy wooden door creaked open, and in walked the tiny woman in a dark suit and white lace blouse. “Do you remember me?” she asked, her voice calm but probing.

A deep exhale escaped, and my shoulders sagged as a reassuring smile splayed across my face—until the corner of my mouth pulled taut, sharp pain ripping through the tender skin. I winced, but the sting was nothing compared to what I’d survived, or the second chance I’d been granted.

My mouth throbbed with a deep, aching pain, making it hard to move my tongue, but as it probed my gums, I froze. Empty sockets where teeth should have been. A wave of dread shot through me. I wanted to raise my hand, to feel for myself and confirm it, but my arm refused to move.

A lump rose in my throat, as my eyes welled beneath furrowed brows. “What has he done to me? What has he done?” The words trembled with disbelief, but the boiling anger was unstoppable. It erupted in a primal, guttural yell—raw, unfiltered, and beyond any sense of control.

When my cries finally subsided, she rested her hands ever-so-gently on my arm. “You’ve done it, Joy,” she said with a sweet, encouraging smile. “You’ve saved your sisters and your brother. Good for you.”

“Is he put away now, so he can’t hurt us anymore?” I asked, my voice cracking.

Her small hand clamped lovingly on my motionless arm. “Yes,” she replied, her accent soft and comforting. “Your sisters are together in one home, and your brother is in a different one. But they’ll all be taken care of now, thanks to you.”

My brows pulled together, a knot forming in the center of my forehead. She wasn’t making sense. “I have two brothers. Levi and Joey. Two of them.”

“I’m so sorry, Joy,” she whispered, lifting my hand where purplish-red fingers protruded from a cast, swollen and stiff. She pressed my trembling fingertips to her lips, planting a gentle kiss on each one. When she finished, her voice broke as she gasped, “Little Joey didn’t make it.”

Darkness started on the outer walls and closed in, enveloping me—suffocating me as it crammed itself down my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I fought for air with everything I had left. I needed one more try.

——-

My sisters sat glued to the television, laughing. This time, it was Joey sprawled beneath the table, Matchbox cars scattered about, while Levi bobbed his head in time with the beats from the headphones.

When the front door creaked open, I bolted toward it, desperate to stop my father from entering the living room. But it wasn’t my father at all.

Standing in the doorway was a familiar petite woman in black, a white lace blouse peeking from beneath her jacket. Her lips curled into a Grinch-like smirk, with something sly and unnerving. “Shall we play again?”