A crash and scream from the other room woke both children instantly and simultaneously. The hall light streamed into the space between the carpet and the bottom of their door, and the boy, six years old, sat up.
"Wirt," a voice called from the other side of the room.
He turned, only faintly seeing his older sister, nine years old, lifting up a flap of her blanket for him to curl into. He scrambled off his bed and hastily tip-toed over. Once he was in the warmth of her purple covers, they listened with wide eyes over the sound of their own heavy breathing and their mother's muffled sobbing from the other room.
"Shut the fuck up! Stop crying, you ungrateful bitch! I am tired of your shit!"
There came another sob. "Why are you talking like-"
"Shut. Up!" The sound of skin against skin and their mother's holler of pain made them both flinch, and Wirt felt his sister's arm around his waist, pulling him closer.
"You stupid bitch, you will shut the fuck up and listen to me. I have dealt with your bullshit for ten years, I have let you bitch and moan over 'Wah wah, I'm so depressed','Wah wah, I had a bad childhood','Wah wah,' all I ever hear. I have raised both of your kids, I have given you money and a place to live, and you have the audacity to be upset over the quality of your fucking life?"
"I didn't mean it was your fault, Ray, I'm sorry!"
"Sorry or not, I don't fucking care, I know what the hell you meant."
"No, you- you know what, never mind, I'm done, I'm leaving, I'm not dealing with you right now, you're drunk."
They could hear the sound of a door slamming and swinging open again, and the yelling became louder and closer.
Their bedroom door opened, and the light that poured in temporarily blinded them. They both sat up and packed themselves tightly against the corner of the bed next to the wall, watching as their mother tore open their drawers, picked up their backpacks, and began shoving clothes inside.
"I'm drunk?! You think I'm drunk?! Tell me the last time I've ever- no, I'm just sick and tired of your bullshit."
"Bullshit? Tell me, what exactly is my-"
Their mother fell silent when she looked over to her petrified children, clinging to eachother for dear life. It was enough to make her drop her flushed face into her clenched fist and choke out a sob. She looked as though she might collapse, but she took a shaky breath and closed their backpacks. "Come on, kids, we're leaving."
"Where're we going?"
"Don't worry about it, Amelia, just get up, you too, Wirt."
"No, lay down, none of you are going anywhere," their father snapped with a finger pointed.
"Don't listen to your father, get up, now."
"You don't tell my fucking children not listen to me, you asshole." He swung again, catching her by surprise as his knuckles crashed into her face, and this time, there was blood. Paralyzed, Wirt and Amelia watched as it dripped from her nose and rolled down her lips. If her fairly large stomach hadn't been blocking the blood's path, it might have fallen to the floor rather than onto her her yellow tank.
She touched her nose, which was now tingling and burning. She looked up at their father, and, with no coherent response in mind, she let out a furious shriek and landed her palm violently into his chest, knocking his breath out for a moment. He stumbled over, and their mother took the chance to shove him out of the room before looking back to Wirt and Amelia. "Go, please, now."
Amelia stood first, pulling Wirt behind her and dragging him out the room. She ducked her head as they passed by their father, who was regaining his composure.
"Go to the car," their mother called out after them.
"No, you're not leaving!"
"Don't touch me! Yes I am, I hope you enjoy sleeping alone, you piece of shit!"
Wirt and Amelia could hear their mother following them, her steps heavy and furious.
The car unlocked with a chirp, and the children scrambled into the cold backseat. Their mother sat in front of the wheel and slammed the car door in a pure rage.
She snatched a few napkins from the glove compartment and began wiping her bloody face, only smearing it more than really cleaning it. Once the blood had been wiped way a good deal, she looked down at the drenched napkins, the blood draining from her face (only metaphorically this time). She stared at it, looking as though she'd been struck again.
She turned in her seat and looked over at her children, her expression softening as she took in the scene; Amelia and Wirt, trembling and horrified, in their pajamas after midnight in the back of their car after hearing and seeing the violent episode that broke out between their mother and father.
Her bottom lip trembled, and she turned just enough so she could hold one of both her children's little hands. She began to cry again, and she pulled her hands away from them to hide her crying face so they wouldn't have to see it.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry you had to see that," she choked out, gagging as the words tried to stay in her throat.
Amelia reached over and touched their mother's shoulder with a fleeting stroke. "It's okay, mom."
Wirt hesitated, but sat up to wrap his arms around their mother's seat and around her neck in a gentle hug. She reached up to rub Amelia's hand and slide her nails softly over Wirt's arm.
They sat like so for several minutes, before hearing something shatter in the house. Their mother sniffled and rubbed her eyes. "Thank you. Now let's go."
She started the car while they sat back and buckled their seatbelts. The car pulled out of the driveway, and they drove to a nearby motel in silence.