"Come on mom we have to go."
She stumbles around the room for a moment, her chestnut coloured eyes glazed over in a misty haze, the separation between fantasy and reality surely now gone from her mind. Her glance looks empty, vacant. And although she was looking at me, I know that she's not seeing me. Not really. I grimace, pick up the empty bottles of alcohol and throw them in the trash, shifting the surprisingly light suitcases towards the front door. There is no doubt that the alcohol and whatever substances she has been taking are still going strong in her system and I didn't even want to think about how long they may linger there for. My heart beats so hard and fast it almost hurts, fear strangling me with its icy fingers, making it increasingly more difficult to breathe.
The light yellow and green bruises on the left side of her cheek are starting to show through the thick concealer making my stomach churn and I feel on the brink of being sick. Marks face engraved itself in my mind, staring at me, wearing a blank expression. I shiver. Although the front door is only mere meters away from us, it's proving almost impossible to reach. I didn't even want to think about how hard it would be to get her down the endless flights of stairs, since the only lift in the entire block of apartments was out of order, let alone all the way to the police station without being seen. She attempts to say something but her speech is so slurred I can't differentiate one word from another. Her body slumped in a heap on the floor, her jet black mascara and eyeliner streaming down her face and smeared around her eyes making her resemble a gothic princess. I know I have little to nothing time left and frustration starts to build up inside until my crying turns to screaming.
"He's going to be back in a minute if we don't leave now!" I scream, my clear desperation seems to finally get through to her, and she attempts to stand up. Now she is the one crying not me.
"I can't do it Gretchen I can't leave him." The words that I have been both fearing and dreading hit me like a whirlwind of despair and disappointment. Blowing up in my face like a bomb, throwing everything including all my best efforts back in my face. The expression on her face is grave, almost cynical. And then once again my life becomes somewhat of an inescapable nightmare, the last shinning ray of golden hope I had been clinging on to suddenly vanished. Gone. Once again trapped in a life where fear holds me captive. The fear for not only my life but for hers. Because I know if I leave, I will not be there to protect her for whatever that unpredictable, filthy, excuse of a human being might do to her.
Her shoulders slump ever so slightly as she watches my reaction, her guilt clearly displayed in her eyes. Despite our situation, the danger, the concerned gossiping of the nearby neighbours. It's been five months since Mark had been living with us, and despite everything I had to withstand; the thing that scared me the most was that she seemed oblivious to it. Right from the start, his increasing anger issues, his fears and paranoia's, the alcohol, the drugs, the fights. No matter how much I tried to scare her or shove my own ideas of normality in her face. She was never scared. It was almost as if she didn't see anything wrong with their relationship at all. Now he had dragged her into the depths of it, like he had actually managed to brainwash her into thinking that everything was fine. It was not fine.
Then, as if he could hear my thoughts. He's at the door. Fists pounding on the door, no doubt attempting to break it down.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON."
I have no idea how long he has been standing behind the door, whether he has been listening the entire time or had only just arrived. But it doesn't matter now, nothing matters. There's nothing I can do. I can't even call the police because of the disconnected phone lines and the cell phones he confiscated out of fear of us leaving him. I attempt to shift her in the opposite direction now, towards the bedroom in the back of our apartment, Furthest away from him. From that monster. My grip on her shoulder is shaking now so it doesn't prove a difficult task for her to brush me off.
"Gretchennnnn goooo tooo yourroom. I ca can deal with this." She mutters, stumbling towards the front door, to let him in. Knowing there is nothing I can do now I stand behind her. The fear and exhaustion starts to take hold of me now, everything seems to blur slightly and I fear my knees are going to buckle under my weight.
When she opens the door his eyes dart from her to me and then back to her. His gaze rests on the suitcases, his expression going from fear to anger in an instant and I suddenly feel winded again, like I'm struggling to breathe. He storms towards me and shoves me into the kitchen before I can retreat, flinging me so hard that my head catches the side of the heavy glass coffee table. Blood soaks my hair as my head starts to spin and pain throbs my head. Dark spots dance in front of my eyes, growing and swirling until almost all my vision is gone, I can feel myself on the brink of fainting. He slams the door so hard I'm surprised he hasn't broken the door frame.
I can hear screaming and shouting from behind the door and I attempt to pick myself up off the floor. Every time I almost manage to stand up my knees buckle from underneath me and I fall down again. The volume and intensity of their voices increase, I hear her body hit the floor with a thud. Abounding the idea of attempting to stand I crawl across the floor as fast as I can and push open the door, desperate to get to her, to do something, anything. Everything around me which isn't black becomes a blur.
When my vision focuses a scream rises in throat chocking me, the horror and disbelief so powerful it causes every bone in my body to shake, adrenaline rushes through me like a tidal wave and I suddenly feel very awake. My mother is slouched in the corner of the room unconscious, her head is tilted to one side, resting on her left shoulder showing a disturbing display of bruises and cuts, droplets of crimson blood drip down the side of her face. Mark is hovering over her, and in his right hand he holds a silver kitchen knife, his body is shaking with anger and I know that this time is going to be far worse than I had anticipated. He doesn't notice me and he continues screaming at her, the knife glints in his hand as it catches the sunlight. I fight the urge to pass out and grab the nearest object to me. I have to do something.
He spins round, holding a piece of broken china in his hand, clutching the back of his head where the kitchen ornament just hit him. His face displaying such rage that I struggle to resist squirming under his red hot glare. He heads towards me, his body arched over slightly, fist clenches so hard that the knife blade and the broken china are drawing blood from his palms. My mother is up off the floor now, hobbling towards him. Her faint pleas a whisper, the scent of blood and perspiration linger in the air.
"Mark wait, don't do this, calm down."
He spins around and I know she's pushed him over the edge now. Whatever stage he was at before, there is no hope of return and before I know it she's on the floor.
Blood seeps out of the knife wound from her chest.
This time the scream really does escape my lips but he doesn't stop.
One, Two, Three, Four, Five Six.
After the sixth blow he stagers back, he whips around and looks at me. I want to run over but I can't, both my fear and horror seem to paralyse me. His facial expression has completely changed from anger to horror now as he cradles her body lying limp on the floor. He mutters something under his breath and then turns and storms out the flat, slamming the door behind him, tears streaming down his face as the realisation of what he's just done hits him. As soon as he has left I run over to her, she's too shocked to cry. Her breathing comes in short ragged breaths and to my relief her wounds are as deep as I initially thought. I attempt to pick her up off the floor but her body is too heavy and she is in too much pain to stand. I drag her along the blood stained carpet, tears now streaming from my eyes. I attempt to stop the downfall for her because I know that my selfish crying and whining are most definitely not going to help the situation, but I can't.
When I finally manage to drag her out the front door, I frantically bang on number 23. There is no way she will manage to make it down one flight of stairs let alone four. Mrs Hewett's nine year old son Josh answers the door and when he sees us he takes a couple steps back. His big blue eyes are transfixed on my mother for a few moments before he screams for help and runs for his landline. His mother appears at the door seconds later before she crouches down beside her, checking her for other various injuries.
It is then that I finally pass out.