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“Jesiah, not so loud. You’ll wake Harold.”
My little nose scrunched up. I didn’t like Harold. He was mean and yelled at my mama.
Abandoning the fire truck to the living room, I picked up the sketch pad I kept in a little box beside the couch. A pack of crayons lay unused on the bottom as I reached for a pencil.
“You want some milk?”
“Yes, mama.”
“Good boy. Have a seat in your hideout, and I’ll grab a couple of cookies for you.”
My eyes widened. “Cookies!”
She giggled, plating the cookies after she poured milk.
I ate my snack at the kitchen table, then retreated into my hideout. The lower cabinet next to the sink remained empty for my use. For some reason, I loved to crawl in there and hide. Sometimes I left the doors ajar so I could draw or closed them and played with my trucks in the dark.
The doors propped open as I sat down, humming while I sketched with my pencil. Pictures filled my head, and I had to draw them. My fingers itched if I didn’t use my pencil.
“Look, mama.”
She bent down, staring at the image I’d drawn. Her eyes filled with tears as she gave me a wobbly smile. “That’s beautiful, baby. Is that me and your daddy?”
I nodded, drawing a heart around them. “He comes to my dreams and tells me how much he loves you.”
My mama grabbed her chest. “He does?”
“Uh-huh. How come he doesn’t visit?”
“He can’t, baby. I’m sorry.”
“Penny!” Harold roared, slamming the bedroom door before he entered the kitchen. “Where the hell are you?”
Mama slowly closed the doors, straightening with her wooden spoon. I didn’t say a word as the darkness closed around me.
Harold’s heavy footsteps shook the floor before he reached mama. I heard her make a funny sound. “Where’s my dinner?”
“Almost,” she choked, “finished. There’s a half-hour left in the oven.”
Smack!
“Why do you always make me wait?”
“I-I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Harold always hurt mama when he wanted something, and she didn’t move fast enough. I hated his mean fists and angry heart. Prepared to fight for my mama, I shoved open the doors and launched myself toward Harold.
“Baby, no!” Mama shouted.
Too late.
The door scratched Harold’s leg, and a smear of his blood brushed across my arm as we collided. His fist rose, slamming down on my back as I flew across the tiled floor, landing in a puddle of bruised muscles and bones.
My eyelids fluttered, images racing across my eyes as I pictured Harold beating multiple women, not just my mama. He hit kids too. Boys like me.
“You’re bad,” I whispered to him as the darkness took over, pulling me away from mama.
Her scream was the last thing I heard.
