My Short Story

It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon, and I was counting down the minutes to five o’clock so I could end my shift and finally go home. When that digital clock hit 5:00pm; I clocked out, jumped into my Mitsubishi and drove the three miles it takes to get back to my house.

When I walked in through the front doors, the first thing I noticed was that my mother was in the backyard lounging on a raft in the above-ground pool. I walked outside and my mom acknowledged that I was home. “Hi Montgomery,” she said; she had that voice that I knew too well, the tone meant she had been drinking alcohol – rum and Coke to be exact. I replied, “Hey mom.”

My mom occasionally drinks after work, and I wouldn’t mind this; however, alcohol doesn’t make my mom all happy and outgoing like some people. No, instead she gets very argumentative and aggressive. The worst thing about it is I’m usually the target of her anger and the subject of her arguments. So when I hear that “voice” or when I see her starting to drink, I automatically separate myself from her, and if I can’t, then I appease her and agree with everything she says – even if I don’t.

To resume, that “ordinary” night would soon turn into an event that I would never forget. After my mom jumped out of the pool, she went upstairs and changed out of her bathing suit and back into a casual outfit. I was sitting on the couch in the living room when she came back down. She was now on her second drink; that I knew of. As I was watching television she walked over and began to talk about something that I had done; this usually is the first sign of an argument, so I quickly changed the subject. “Mom, so I was thinking that next year I’m going to try out for the track team so I can participate in the high jump.”
She didn’t know what the high jump was, so I showed her some videos on YouTube, in hopes that it would occupy her mind with something other than fighting. My mom was very impressed with the whole sport and quickly loved the idea of me joining track for the following year. I felt like I had succeeded because my mom was deeply intrigued with the new learned sport, and she didn’t have any reason to start a power trip and argue with me – or so it seemed.

As soon as I felt gratification, my mother was taken over by her drunken competitiveness and challenged me that she was a better athlete than me. A better athlete? I thought to myself. How can a 43 year old woman that smokes on a daily basis possibly be more fit, and therefore a better athlete, than me? Now like I said, when my mom was in this psychological state I knew to appease her and always agree with her to avoid a screaming argument. However, I was a fool and I fell for her trickery. Under my breath, I remarked, “No mom, there is no way that you are better than me in sports.” She replied, “Montgomery, I can do anything better than you, anything.” She listed off activities and exercises that she would be able to beat me in. One of those was push-ups. “Mom, mom, wait, be quiet. I could beat you in anything, and not just beat you, I can double you. You do 100 jumping jacks, I could do 200! Same with push-ups, or anything of the sort.” My mom went off the deep end. She got that stupid smirk that she makes right before she thinks she is going to “school” somebody. “Alright, push-ups” she said, “I’ll go first and let’s see what you can do.” I was in full agreement; I was excited to make my mom look dumb.

So she got down onto the tiled floor in the living room and began her session of push-ups. One, two… that was it, just two. “Two mom? You really don’t think I can double that? Okay, well here I go.” I was being sarcastic at this point – I was also acting like an a**hole. I got down and began, one, two, three, acting like it was difficult to pull off the last one, four. “Whew, that was tough, but nonetheless I still beat you.” My mom was infuriated and left the room to go upstairs into her own room. “That’s it?” I thought, “Wow, no yelling?” This was a first; my mom had just accepted the fact that she lost.

I went back to watching television. No more than five minutes had gone by before my mom came back down to get her sheets from the dryer. “Hey a**hole! Bring my bed sheets up to my room and make my bed.” I was taken aback. “Uh… no, you do it.” Still seething from her earlier defeat, she began to yell. I cut her off, “I’m not going to do any favor for somebody that calls me an a**hole and is rude – do it yourself, mom.” At that moment, my mom threw her rum and Coke beverage in my face, drenching my clothes and soiling the couch.

Now, according to the Eve Foundation, “Domestic violence can be physical, sexual, emotional, economic, or psychological actions or threats of actions that influence another person.” My mom calling me vulgar names is an example of emotional and psychological violence. This has influenced me not to associate myself with any type of drunk person: young, old, aggressive when drunk, or even happy when drunk. These events have altered my mental stability towards alcohol as a whole.

I remembered that the best way to deal with my mom is not to fight back, but just ignore the fact that she just spilled alcohol all over me. So I sat up, took off my shirt and went into my bathroom, hung it over the shower curtain rods. Shirtless, I returned to the living room and resumed watching television.
My mother loved to fight, it made her feel empowered; my lack of retaliation threw my mom overboard – this is when things got intense. Sitting on the couch, my mom got in my face and began to scream; simultaneously, her spit landed on my face. As I tried to move away from my mom so I could gain more personal space, I suddenly saw black and blue – my mom just hit me in the face. It took me a few seconds to comprehend what had happened; I had never been domestically abused. Rage overcame me and I felt like a bull charging towards a Matador. However, I remained calm on the outside and went straight to my room to grab my phone. On the way to my room, my mom punched me again.

I grabbed my phone off my bed, and went back through the living room to proceed outside. My mom asked, “What are you doing? Get back here! I’m not done!” “I’m calling the police,” I replied. On my way out, my mom punched me in the back of head two last times. When I walked outside, the sun had just settled over the horizon. The sky was mostly a navy color except for the orange and purple protruding from where the sun just set. I dialed 911 and put the phone up to my ear.
“Ring…ring…911 Dispatcher, what is your name and the location of your emergency?” “Montgomery Husemann and it’s 202 South Banana River Drive” “Okay, and what is your emergency?” My heart began to beat faster and faster. I felt like my arteries in my neck were on the verge of exploding. “My mother was attacking me and I had to leave the house to get away from her. She punched me a total of four times in the head, but I’m not injured.” This was it, there was no turning back now – the damage had already been done. “Are there any weapons in the house that you might think your mom would use towards you?” replied the dispatcher. “No ma’am, she wouldn’t go to that extent; there are no weapons.” “Okay, I’m sending a police unit out to your location now.” “Thank you.”
In 2010, Florida Department of Law Enforcement released the statistics of all domestic crimes for the state of Florida. 113,378 cases were recorded for all types of domestic violence. This is more than the number of cases in manslaughter, abduction, arson, bribery, embezzlement, fraud, forgery, blackmail, and intimidation all together – which only amounts up to 24,802 cases.
As I waited for the cops to arrive, my mom finally made her way to the front yard. “Did you call them?” “Yes,” I replied. “Oh, okay, well let’s wait so we can explain to them how awful of a child you are.” Oh how much I loathed that “voice”. Before the police arrived, my mom went into the house and came back with a tall glass of Kool-Aid, thinking that would hinder the smell of alcohol in her breath when they arrived. When they did, they spoke to me first. “Are you Montgomery?” the one cop said. “I am.” “Alright, so can you tell me what happened here?” I told him the whole story, start to finish. He kept jotting down some of the things I said – most likely so he could compare my story to my mother’s when it was her turn to speak. “Okay, thank you for your time. Please stay here while my partner and I go and speak with your mom about tonight’s events.” “Will do,” I replied.
After several minutes of sitting in the night air, with my shirt off still, the officers came back to my location and told me that they weren’t going to press any charges, even though they could tell that my mom was intoxicated. I was a little depressed, I was hoping that they would throw my mom in jail for the night to teach her a lesson, but this sufficed. “Thank you, officer.” I said. “No problem, if there are anymore issues please don’t hesitate to call. These situations can be dangerous,” the police officer concluded. “Alright, I will if needed.” That was it; the two cops left to their car and drove away.
Now the thought of going back inside was haunting me. I’d rather have slept in my car or anywhere else that night, but I decided to face my nightmare. When I walked inside my mom was in the kitchen. My heart was pounding again, but she didn’t scream or yell or anything. All she said before she went upstairs to retire for the night was, “Call your dad tomorrow, you’re moving back to Colorado at the end of the week.”

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