All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Runaway - The Beginning
My parent’s shouts tumbled down the halls, echoing off the walls growing steadily louder as they reached me. I drew my tattered blanket higher above my head, trying to protect myself from the noises that thundered in my ears. My hands were cold, from being hidden under the thin blanket. My trembling hands found my ears as I covered them, trying to squeeze the noises out of my head. As the arguing continued to escalate, the noise level grew louder, I pressed my palms as tight as I could to my ears and shut my eyes tightly, as to pretend I was somewhere else.
The shouts became louder, and I sighed as I removed my palms from my eyes, the attempt was deemed useless, nothing would block out these noises. I grabbed onto a patch on the blanket and yanked it back down to my shoulders, my face growing hot under the covers. I rolled over on my side, facing the white door of my room that was always left slightly ajar. The hallway light was left on, my request for sleeping. I could see the silhouettes of those yelling in the hallway, I tried feebly to mentally block out the shouts with no prevail.
Stomping soon accompanied the yells as women, my mother, walked furiously down the hall, shouting over her shoulder as she went. The man she was arguing with, my father, responded icily to her shouts. She paused in front of my door, and I watched her make rude gestures towards him, her face red and her eyes swollen. My father’s footsteps grew closer as he was soon face to face with my mother. I was easily able to see the next few moments as they unfolded.
My father stepped towards my mother, who cringed back, her mouth turning from hatred to a frown. My father studied her face for a moment, and all was silent, except for my heavy breathing, and thumping heart in my chest. I was near positive that the fight was over, that peace was about to settle in. He lifted his hand to her face, grabbing the back of her neck lightly, stroke her tear-stained cheek with his thumb, muttering something so quietly, I couldn’t quite make out the words. My mother looked at him then, her chest heaving and they looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. My fears momentarily disappeared, as I was fooled that their fight had ended.
Then, in a short instant, my father’s hand dropped from her check, and formed a fist. My father brought his clenched hand back, as a spasm of understanding crossed my mother’s face my father brought his fist forward. My eyes flew shut before I could see the result of his crime, but my ears were unprotected. I heard my mother’s cry as she crumpled to the floor in heap, her tears spilling onto her cheeks once more. I heard my father spit upon my mother before I opened one eye to see my father falling onto my mother, his fists waving furiously, connecting with her body moments after each other.
I laid there petrified, used to their constant fights that occurred daily late into the night when they thought I was long past awake. Yet, I couldn’t help but see the different e between this argument and the ones the previous nights. The fights usually had been mere words, and now, my mother lay on the floor trying to fight off her attacker as my father continued to beat her. My mother’s breath began to come in rasps, as her fighting became feebler. I eyed the telephone on my nightstand; my mother had always forbidden me to cell anyone when my parents were fighting. “Honey, when me and daddy are fighting, you don’t call anyone. You only call 9-1-1 when someone is hurt.” I had had the phone to my ear, and my fingers on the numbers.
My father stopped beating my mother, and he stood up, looking at her crumpled and bruised body with disgust. He grabbed her arms, one which was bent at an awkward angle, and dragged her body to their bedroom. I look a deep breath and reached for the phone, dialling the first number ‘9’, hoping the noise would not be enough to draw attention to me. With no sound of my father’s incoming footsteps, I finished dialling quickly. A young woman answered me.
“Hello, 9-1-1, what is your emergency?” she drawled.
“537 Ivy Cres, my father is hurting my mommy. Come fast!” I said, trying to keep my voice down, my fear mounting as a sweat broke out on my forehead.
“Yes, we will be sending someone soon. Can you tell me the state of your mother?” the voice asked, concerned.
“Well.. my daddy, he … he punched her.” I whispered my voice shaking “many times” I added, almost silently. Then, to my great surprise I heard fast footsteps down the hall and my father yelling.
I ran to closer my door, but my father flung it open, throwing me aside. I could just hear the voice of the women on the phone franticly saying ‘hello?’. My father looked at phone dangling from its holder, and then looked at me. I was frozen as my father took the few short steps to where I was sprawled on the cold ground. My father’s mouth turned into an evil grin, his eyes unforgiving. I didn’t know what to do as my father took the few short steps to where I was sprawled on the cold ground. As he made a fist with his hand, I began to sob, and then he stuck me across the face, throwing me into unconsciousness.