Divorce Number 3

March 13, 2012
By LSinclare7 BRONZE, South Riding, Virginia
LSinclare7 BRONZE, South Riding, Virginia
3 articles 0 photos 0 comments

I lay there, still and silent, in my single bed with my rainbow-flowered comforter pulled up to my nose. I was trying desperately to keep my lids shut over my eyes. Instead, once again, I found myself staring at the starts stuck upon my ceiling, glowing against the dark of my bedroom. I tried to imagine the house was completely silent - that my dad and step-mom were in their bedroom, fast asleep. But it wasn’t quiet, and they weren’t asleep. In fact, they were just down the hall, lights on, wide awake, each trying to scream louder than the other.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. My six-year-old-self decided I’d tolerated their fighting long enough. I was tired, both physically and emotionally. As I pulled my sheet away from my body, and swung my legs down the side of my bed, I became increasingly nervous. Slowly, I crept to the door on my tip-toes. When I reached it, I put just two of my fingers along with my thumb on the handle, and turned it carefully, as to not make too much noise.

As I pushed the door open slightly, a bright beam of light shone through the crack. I put my face up against the door, so as only my right eye could peer into my parent’s bedroom. She was sitting on the foot of their bed, hunched over with her head in her hands. I thought maybe their argument was over, until I saw her shoulders shaking. Although I was across the hall, I could make out the faintest sobs coming from Rebecca. My father was nowhere in sight.

She lifted her head the slightest bit and I looked toward a corner of the room I couldn’t see. She sniffed and slowly said, “I just can’t do this anymore.” I heard a loud thud, and then yelling from my dad. Just as before, they were right back at it. I opened my door even wider to catch what was going on. My dad snatched the alarm clock out of its socket, threw his arm back, and aimed right for her. The plastic of the screen cracked, barely missing her, and hitting the bathroom door. Next, Rebecca’s hairdryer came flying out of the bathroom. This time, she hit him. She quickly slammed the door as he came toward her, fists up. He pounded on her door as she screamed. I shut my eyes tight trying to erase the picture of blood on my father’s hands, and violent tears streaming down his third wife’s face.

The sirens wailed as I sat on the stairs, hunched over, peering through the wood columns of the stairs. My father stood in the doorway, in nothing but boxers, waving goodbye to a policeman. I tried to strain my eyes to see out the living room window, but my glasses were left upstairs, and I could only make out the blue and red flashing lights as Rebecca rode away, leaving me alone.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!