The Call

“911. What's your emergency?”

“Help” I whispered, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.

“Hello? 911. What's your emergency?” The operator said again in a professional, calm voice that seemed to ring throughout the tiny confines of the closest. 

I squeezed my eyes shut tight, swallowing down the rising terror. I inhaled slowly through my nose to calm the shaking in my voice and whispered again, “I need help.”

“What’s your current location?” the operator inquired, her sweet voice so, so loud. 

“33 West Franklin Street” I breathed. 

Beyond the door, beyond the sanctuary of the small hall closet in which I hid, booming footsteps bounded down the hallway. I pressed the phone hard to chest to muffle any sounds, my own hand clamped over my mouth to stifle the sobs caught in my throat. The heavy, frantic footsteps receded to the other end of the house. I could hear the sounds of cabinet doors being ripped open, drawers being rummaged through, the breaking of a glass as it fell off a shelf. 

I pulled my phone away from my chest, bringing it to my ear again. 

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes.” I whispered. 

“What’s the nature of your emergency?” asked the woman at the other end of my lifeline. 

“My mom” I croaked. I cleared my throat as quietly as I could and tried again. “My mom. She’s been attacked.”

“Where is your mom now?”

“She’s in the hall.”

“Is she conscious? Is she breathing?”

“Yes.” I whispered. I could hear her. I could hear her outside of the closet door, her breathing heavy and labored, wet. 

“Can you tell me what happened?”

A piercing scream had awoken me. My eyes blinked open instantly but my body lay frozen in my bed, confusion and an undercurrent of fear rooting me in place. I could hear loud, banging noises that didn’t quite register, that I couldn't quite identify. I sat up slowly, my eyes fixed on my bedroom door. I pulled my phone from under my pillow, pressing the button on the side to reveal the time. 3:50 in the morning. And then I heard a male voice. The voice was deep and foreign, and although I could not make out his words, I could hear clearly the menace that laced them. I could hear my mother’s voice too, softer and placating. 

I shifted my position and rose to my feet, ever so slowly to stifle the groaning of the old spring mattress. I padded across the room on silent feet, using the light of my phone I still clutched to avoid the landmines of clothing, shoes, and various debris that littered the floor. I reached out for the door handle, the metal cold in my hand, and twisted slowly. I pried the door from the jamb with slow, gentle precision, hoping beyond hope that the worn hinges would not scream my presence to whoever was on the other side. But as I cracked the door open centimeter by centimeter, a small squeal erupted from the door hinge.

My mothers’ eyes flashed to mine from her room across the hall. She was half sprawled on the floor at the foot of her bed, her lip cracked and blood trickling down her chin, her eye already swelling shut. Before her stood a large figure in dark clothing, his back to me. My mother rose to her hands and knees, receding further into her room, away from me. The man looming over her prowled slowly after her. She was speaking to him, but I couldn't hear a sound over the rushing of my own blood through my ears. Her eyes flashed to me again, and they were devoid of any fear. A hard mask of determination set over her features, yet her eyes remained soft, shining with love as they locked on mine. “Run,” they seemed to say. And in a fluid, rapid motion, she had sprung to her feet, lunging at the mountainous figure before her. 

I flung open my bedroom door and tore down the hallway, the pounding of my feet on the hardwood floor overshadowed by the yelling and crashing happening behind me. I reached out for the banister, using it to slow my momentum just enough to whip around the bend of the staircase. I bounded the stairs two at a time, stumbling when I reached the bottom. I began to move towards the front door but froze as inky shadows shifted across the dark walls to my right. There was someone else downstairs. 

Eyes wide and heart racing, I frantically scanned my surroundings as my panic stripped all thought from me. I quietly began to backtrack towards the closest door to my left, my eyes never leaving the undulating shapes on the wall before me. The handle of the door pressed into my back, and I reached for it blindly, turning the knob swiftly, and slipped inside. Within the small space I tripped over worn tennis shoes and waded through plush winter jackets, discarded and forgotten now that spring had finally arrived. I burrowed through the down and wool, carving out a space between the leather and frayed laces in which I could hide. 

On the staircase above my head, two sets of pounding footsteps shook the ceiling, rattling the coat hangers and zippers above me like wind chimes. I could hear my mother’s voice yelling out defiantly, the male voice calling after her in anger. The booming impact of something heavy hitting the stairs vibrated through me, followed by the thump, thump, thumping of the mass sliding down the last few steps. An expletive, deep and violent rang out and a solitary set of footsteps disappeared to the other side of the house. 

I could hear the male voice conferring with another, panic and rage lacing their words. They moved about the house hurriedly, clunkily. Beneath the sounds of their frantic movements and urgent words I could hear a softer shuffling, scraping sound sliding down the hall towards my hiding place. The sound moved towards me, inch my inch, labored and slow. 

“I have emergency services on the way. They should be there shortly.” Said the 911 operator. “I want you to stay on the phone with me, okay?”

“Okay.”

I could almost hear the sirens whirring down the quiet, sleeping streets of the suburbs. The blaring sirens racing towards us, the flashing emergency lights painting the darkened houses red and blue as they flew past. I clung to this mental image almost as tightly as I clung to my phone, to the refuge on the other end of the line. I could still hear my mother breathing outside the door and said a small, silent prayer to anyone that would listen that she would continue to do so until help arrived. Tears streamed down my face and splattered on my bare knees, fueled by fear, adrenaline, hope. I didn’t know. 

The closet door clicked open.