A forced smile crept across her face as she nodded at me and for a single moment I thought maybe she didn’t really need Briggs. Maybe all she needed was a moment to relax and close her eyes, like she said.
I second-guessed my call to Briggs when the door flew open and reprieve melted down my spine, finally someone other than me will see her, but it was short-lived. The moment of peace turned into instant terror, Dax, the devil himself stood before me. That fucking piece of shit lunged, pushing through me, to get to Sybil. My feet left the floor as my body flew, weightless as a feather swirling through the thick air, before the crown of my head met the edge of the small rickety table and the rest of my body followed splintering the table into pieces. The room filled with his scary growls, words sharp with edges that pierced my ears.
“Get the fuck up! I own your cunt now! There ain’t no days off for my bitches.”
My vision blurry, I focused on the space where Sybil was being swallowed by Dax. His fist floating high above, before the hammering hollow thud of bone against her delicate, damaged body.
“Pleeeeassseeee . . . no, no, no, hel . . . paaahhhh.” Sybil’s voice was hoarse, filled with raspy cries for help, tainted by the mixture of Dax’s evil demands.
“I’ll beat your shit all fucking day, you crazy bitch. Get your skanky . . . pussy . . . up . . . out . . . of . . . this . . . bed.”
Each word sandwiched between the echoing sounds of him punching her. I pulled my hands up over my head as my mind twisted and plummeted into the putrid memories of my childhood. Terrifying moments filled with the woman who was supposed to love me more than any liquid confidence she and my father poured down their throats.
My bedroom door creaks open before it slams shut. I know it’s my mom by the nasty aroma of stale whiskey that saturates the air. Dad punished her tonight for mixing his mashed potatoes with cream of corn at dinner. God, I never know what’s gonna to set him off . . . My father uses any reason to beat my mother, he tears down her self-esteem, keeps her prisoner to his rage, and now she’s standing over me.
I sense the silence before the storm, the split second God may hear my prayers . . . I let out a short breath, relax just enough to invite hope when mom’s hand slaps across my cheek, she grabs bundles of my hair at the nape of my neck and pulls my head back.
‘Look at me you piece of shit! You think lying there, acting like you’re asleep is going to erase the fact that you’re the reason he hits me? Huh? Do you hear me? You spoiled little brat . . . See what you make him do? You push us enough and make us drink . . . you’re the reason, it’s all your fault Rosalie!’
‘Please mom, please, I’m sorry.’ I cry as she continues to yell in my face. Her eyes are so dark, empty, as if some evil spirit possesses her soul, her expression is missing remorse. The alcohol she drinks feeds the monster she’s become while my father gives her the perfect excuse to be brutal.
‘Too late, the damage’s done! One fucking mistake, a constant goddamn reminder of my biggest mistake.’ She slurs through her rage and blood tainted tears. The back of her hand meets my cheek, my head swings back, pain radiates through my jaw. The blood from biting my tongue rolls down the back of my throat in iron tinged waves. Her fist comes down over and over again against my cheek. I feel the cracking of my cheekbone, the gush of blood as it swells into my eye socket. My head falls against the pillow, I pull my hands over my face, as mom’s breathy criticisms keep tumbling from her mouth.
‘I’m sorry mom, ss . . . ssssooorryyyy,’ I cry across my palms. She’s relentless, and doesn’t stop hitting me until she’s physically worn out.
‘You are pathetic! Do you hear me . . . you’re an ugly, pathetic girl.’
My mother’s wicked voice bled and morphed into deep short huffs and grunts. Words she had sharpened and riddled with rage pulled me from the nightmare of when I was sixteen and the very last time my mother ever hit me. I forced myself to open my eyes, stinging with pain from the chill of the room; suddenly I recognized what the hell was really happening. Briggs was towering over someone’s body. His fist covered in blood, muscles rock hard, his body seemed to have grown since the last time I saw him. Shirt ripped, ink covered in splashes and sprays of blood, I noticed the spastic jolts of Briggs’ victim. It was Dax, his arms and legs jerked as Briggs’ enormous fist connected over and over again with his face. Blood everywhere, almost as if Briggs was tearing through Dax’s flesh.
“W’at you gotta’ say now mutha-fucker? ‘uh? Can’t answer me? You just a wee bit fuckin’ tough when you’d want to sully innocent women,” he yelled, his Irish accent got thicker as he continued to punch Dax.