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FIVE YEARS LATER—
My fingers gripped the pencil in my hand tightly, the images in my head so intense I couldn’t get them down fast enough. Furiously sketching, I filled the paper, moving to a blank page in the book to keep going.
“Jesiah?” My mama poked her head into my room. “Did you finish your homework?”
I nodded, too focused to look up.
“You hungry? I’m making meatloaf for dinner. It’s almost finished.”
“Sure, mama.”
She clucked her tongue. “Always sketching, my talented son.”
“I like to draw.”
“You’re the most gifted artist I’ve ever seen. Never let anyone tell you differently.”
I looked up, catching the smile on her face. Mama’s eyes seemed sad, but she didn’t ever let that bring her down. She always said rainbows chased the clouds and rain away.
“You’re my rainbow,” she told me once when I was little. “Full of life, color, and endless joy.”
“Am I still your rainbow?” I asked, daring to say the words without Harold around. He’d complain I was too old to share secrets like that with mama.
“Always,” she replied fiercely. “I love you, Jesiah.”
A bright grin spread across my face. “Love you too.”
Harold didn’t come home for dinner. We enjoyed the break and even ate apple pie my mama made special for dessert. The evening wore on without his arrival, and mama pretended she didn’t know where he went.
We knew—the bar in town.
Mama sat in front of the Christmas tree after she cleaned the kitchen, sewing gifts for friends and family. Mittens, hats, and scarves to keep people warm. She liked to use that recliner so she could prop up her feet, but Harold always sat there when he was home. I liked she got to use it tonight. Mama deserved to be spoiled.
I went to bed with a full tummy and a happy heart.
I woke to a nightmare.
My mother’s screams slashed through my dreams, awakening me to the horror occurring outside my room. I threw the covers aside, running to the door. My hand yanked on the knob, swinging it open, shocked to find my mama and Harold locked in a vicious battle on the floor.
Mama’s back was on the carpet; her nightgown scrunched up around her waist, legs spread wide open as she fought him, scratching and swinging her fists with every ounce of effort she possessed.
Harold rocked his lower body into my mama, laughing as he caught her wrists. One hand smacked her across the face as she cried for him to stop. He slammed his body into hers, and I couldn’t figure out how he was hurting her, but I knew he did.
Tears poured down mama’s face as her head turned, eyes widening with fear as she saw me. “No,” she wailed.
Harold didn’t stop. He held her down, trapping her body beneath his, still pushing his big body into hers. Scratches marred his face and neck.
Something inside me snapped. Broke. Shattered.
I saw the black cast iron skillet my mama loved to use in the oven. It gleamed in the low light, beckoning me to pick it up. Without Harold noticing, I crept closer, snatching it up with two hands.
Mama’s eyes met mine, and she looked away, already knowing what I had to do.
A shrill cry launched from my throat two seconds before I brought the heavy skillet down on the back of Harold’s head. His body shook before he yelled my name, rolling off my mama.
Blood. On the inside of her thighs. On Harold’s private parts.
Blood. Covering mama’s hands. Soaking into Harold’s clothes, matting the hair on his head.
