This is my first time writing Intelligence fanfiction, or any sort of writing with this much of a heavy theme before, so feedback is much appreciated! :) Thank you for checking this out, and I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
While I walked down the street, my long, loose black curls bounced through the breeze, and I recognized that I really didn't want to be going where I was going. I always remembered this on my way home; there was nothing to silence my thoughts besides the sound of my shoes lightly hitting the pavement, or the occasional sound of a neighbourhood dog barking as I wandered past. Heading down the street, drawing out the process as long as I could, and entering the front door of the seemingly peaceful place I had to call home was like entering a war zone. It was impossible to feel safe there, mostly because it never was; even if I was the sole occupant of the house, I still felt as though I should be walking on eggshells. When I wasn't on my own, not thinking only to myself, I brushed over the fact that when it wasn't just me at home, I often feared for my life. Nobody would understand if I told them that, because sometimes I didn't even understand it myself. I shouldn't be afraid, nobody should be afraid to simply exist, especially in their own home, but I more often than not found myself shaking with fear when I heard voices or the sound of the door opening. Maybe I should have been used to it; it was going to be the norm until either myself or my mother ended up dead, but who could ever get used to the thought of something like that?
I was a lot tougher than my mother, in my opinion. I had the ability to recognize that everything that was happening wasn't right, despite what I had been told. Even though I was only fifteen, I was certainly far from stupid, and most people who were considered to be bystanders of the whole thing had a greater understanding, anyway. I don't know if I could be considered a bystander, though. I was never the main recipient of the abuse; but I always just happened to be there as a witness. I would always try and defend myself, something my mother rarely did, if ever, but it was often useless. I was a lot smaller than I liked to think.
Never once had my mother listened to me when I insisted, no, begged, that she get us out of the situation, and I knew she never would. She was too scared, and who could blame her? I was scared too; even if she did leave him, what would the aftermath be? Day to day, things were unpredictable enough, so adding a new twist had the potential to make it even worse. There was the unspoken, yet common knowledge that it was quickly regressing deep into something that no one was going to be able fix. If she left him, we'd have a greater chance of getting out; I was sure of it. She just had to take the risk. One of us had to take some sort of risk.
I was slowly creeping up on the house, more than close enough to recognize his car in the driveway. My stomach dropped, it always did, and I steeled my nerve before making the first step to the right up the driveway. I passed the ever bright door of the garage, too perfectly white to belong to a house filled with such terror, and contemplated opening it up and getting in through there. I always thought about it, but I never did, because who knows what the consequences could have been. It might have been an overreaction, but whenever I saw that beat up, dull gray vehicle parked in front of the house, I had learned that overreactions were somewhat of a necessity. Methodically taking the few steps it took to reach the door, I dug through my bag for my key and noticed the speckled appearance of the handrails. Were those leftover drops of blood from last week? My nose, still not completely unbruised, gave a twinge at the thought, and I made a mental note to get that cleaned up before anyone could see it. Nosy neighbours always wanted to know more than they should.
I tried the door, my hand slipping at the realization that it was, in fact, locked as it usually was. I don't know why I even bothered trying; it was just a habit that kept me sane, I guess. Turning my key in the lock, I took a deep breath and braced myself for all the possibilities waiting for me behind the door.
Closing the door behind me, I quickly took off my simple black running shoes and placed them in their spot in the closet. I surveyed the general area of the main floor, not wanting to stray too far from the front hall, but concerned for what could be happening all the same. Deciding that all was well, I scurried up the carpeted stairs and closed the door to my room behind me, wishing I had the option of locking it. That would have come in handy more times than I would like to admit. Never because I was hiding anything from my mom; she probably knew more about me than I did, but as a protection from what was on the other side of the door.
Being the teacher's pet and major overachiever that I was, I immediately started on my homework and studying that I needed to finish for the next day. I moved the pile of already marked assignments and projects off my desk, most of them baring the first letter of the alphabet at the top with an overly positive comment. I dropped my ridiculously dense pre-calculus textbook on the oak coloured tabletop, along with my notes from that day's psychology class. I breezed through the majority of it, only leaving a few math questions that I needed a bit of guidance on. That was my mother's specialty; curing my never-ending math confusion with her superior knowledge. I'm pretty sure she knew more about what I was studying than my math teacher did half the time.
I stepped into the hall with my book, praying that I wasn't going to be deemed too noisy or disruptive, and went back down the steps in search of my mom. With each passing step, the voices got louder, and I cringed. The majority of said voices was only one voice; one single, scarily deep voice, but there was a bit of feedback from the softer, higher tone that belonged to my mother. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I nervously craned my neck so I could see around the corner without physically entering the room. My heart lurched; it always did, but I would never be used to the feel of it.
At this point, I could almost drown the stream of profanity or pure insults out. I had managed to turn it into background noise. It wasn't pleasant background noise by any stretch of the imagination; it made everything feel more ominous and genuinely terrifying. I would hear the words later, as I always did. They would replay over and over again in my mind, like some sort of sick old record. They would continue in my mind until I felt sick, until I had to go outside and try to clear my head. No amount of fresh air or number of paces around the block would fully get rid of the thoughts, though, and I would be reminded of the very same ones until they were replaced with new ones. Even if they weren't directed towards me, which they weren't the majority of the time, they hit me right in the heart. It didn't really matter who they were for; every single spoken or implied word had a way of making it under my skin.
What I would never be able to drown out was the literal violence, not the words that pierced my skin, the real punches. Once again, it didn't matter who the recipient was, I still felt it, in a sense. Knowing and seeing someone I loved getting hurt in such an unthinkable manner was truly one of the most difficult things on Earth. I'm completely sure of it. All my mother had ever done during her life was try to keep me safe and happy, and now I couldn't even do the same thing for her? I'm sure she felt a similar way when I woke up the day after some sort of incident with a black eye and dried blood still clinging to my face, but I knew I felt just as bad. I wanted to keep her safe, and this horrible, disgusting man was keeping me from doing so.
The feeling of guilt always plagued me, cripplingly so, when I was thankful that I wasn't on the direct receiving end of the physical abuse for most of the time. Sure, I had taken a share of it, but I wasn't the usual intended target. Like I've said, I was a bystander. An involved bystander, I guess, but I wasn't the main target. Sometimes I had thrown myself in front of what was intended for my mom, which she pretended to hate but I knew that she was grateful for it deep down. So, even when I wasn't a target, I got myself involved, and I didn't regret it. All I was trying to do was keep my mom from getting beaten to death; I didn't want any of it, obviously, but I was trying to help her. It made me feel a bit less guilty.
This time, as I stood in my popular hiding spot behind the wall, I saw the usual scene that was all too normal in this house. My mom barely stood, she had likely only recently lifted herself from the floor, probably in too much pain to realize where she was. I closed my eyes for a second and counted backwards from ten. I needed to calm down before I did something completely stupid. Not irrational, almost anything I did was going to be justified, but just not stupid to the point where I ended up more severely injured than usual, or worse, dead. That was a major fear that I carried with me; dying from defending either myself or mother. Would it be heroic? Well, maybe. But, I really didn't want to sacrifice my life when there was a good chance that if I thought things through, I could make it out alive. I would say unscathed, but there was no chance of that. Regarding that, most of the money I had went towards concealer; I always had to cover or explain bruises. ("Walked into a wall, clumsy me!" "Didn't realize the neighbours were playing baseball when I walked by, I'm an idiot!" It was hard to try to come up with some lighthearted situation, but I had to do it.) Thankfully, though, that was almost the extent of my injuries, besides a broken rib from a couple months ago. If explaining a bruise or spending all of my savings on makeup was the worst that happened to me, I shouldn't have been complaining, really. It wasn't the aesthetic result, it was the act.
Since I felt reasonably calm enough to slightly emerge from where I was standing, I took a step out from the wall, contemplating what exactly to do. I tried to catch my mother's eye; was this the time for me to finally call 911? I had asked before, but there was always a negative response, and as much as I didn't want to, I listened. Maybe I shouldn't have been a baby all of those times and defied her wishes, but I think I was trying to give her the respect of listening to her when such a traumatic event was happening. My rationale didn't always make sense, but that's a hard thing to do in such a situation. Nobody knew how to handle something like this; you couldn't predict what was going to happen, so there wasn't much protocol. There was a basic outline, maybe, but how were you really supposed to maintain all of your cognitive ability in such a high stress situation? After years of training, I still find myself thinking on my feet more than anything, and my rash decisions often pay off.
My attempts to catch her eye proved useless, which I should have known. At this point, I don't expect her to be looking for me; she was probably hoping I was far, far away from what was happening. She would never wish for me to be there; she was way too selfless for that. But, besides trying to get her attention, I didn't have many options of what to do. I willed myself to think, and think fast. This was escalating quicker than usual, and even though I wanted to stop this for my mom, I knew I was going to take a lot of the beating, too, if I didn't figure something out.
Even though I was trying to block the sound out of my mind, I could hear my mother's crying, and that made my blood boil. She always had a brave exterior during something like this; she saved the emotions for afterwards. Her breaking down in the middle of this set off major warning bells, and I knew something drastic had to be done.
"Get away from her." My words were sharp, but if you had listened, truly listened, you would have heard the passively fearful edge to them. I had tried to keep that bottled up, but I was truly petrified. I could feel the shaking in my hands, and even four words had been a mouthful for me.
Both he and my mother turned to me after I spoke, and my panic rose rapidly. I had made my presence known; there was no going back now.
"What did you just say?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically I believe. I looked him in the eye, a brave move on my part, and carefully evaluated my choices. I could repeat myself, or I could say nothing. I could also run, encouraging my mom to come with me. Why did I have to make these decisions? Nobody should have to make these decisions.
"I told you to get away from her. Get out before I call the cops," I responded, my entire body shaking more than it ever had in my entire life. The force behind my voice carried a similar shake, so while I was assertive, everyone knew it was just an act. He took several steps towards me, and I was wondering when my life was going to flash before my eyes. The giant stature alone would have been intimidating, but knowing what he was capable of made it so much worse.
I heard a snarling stream of words head directly towards me, and I felt the familiar sting in my nose that I had felt mere days earlier. While familiar, it had escalated to a new level of pain. My hands flew towards it; it had never been this bad. Surely, it was broken. I hoped that this was the worst thing that was going to happen in the following moments. Even though I wanted to drop to the floor, clutching my face as I finally let the sobs take over; I stayed standing, looking him in the eye as I held my nose, blinking back the involuntary tears that accompanied the blow to my face. It was probably the bravest thing I had done to date. I wasn't giving up, admitting defeat, and letting him go back to the abuse he had been delivering to my mother. Here I was, only moments after the most painful punch of my life, my mother screaming my name, telling me to run. I stayed standing.
"I said get out," I said simply, yet angrily. Vocalizing the statement stung my face, and I could feel the blood hitting my palms as I tried to keep myself from inadvertently inhaling it. Even though I expected much worse, he merely pushed me out of his way as he headed back to where my mom was standing. Protectively, I had stood in her way while he was delivering the plague of insults to me.
I looked back to my mother helplessly, still holding my face with one hand. She gave me a sympathetic expression back, which was the last thing I deserved. I should have fought back more. There was so much opportunity there, and I wasted it. But I still had a shot.
My pure impulse took over, and I booked it for the stairs again, running to my mom's room. My hair flew behind me as I took the stairs two at a time, concentrating on not tripping and injuring myself further. I pushed past the slightly ajar door that was inconveniently in my way, and kept going to her closet. At this point, the adrenaline pulsing through my body took away most of the pain I had been feeling. In her closet, there was a safe. In the safe, there was a handgun. I never, ever had thought I would put myself in this situation, but I had to figure out the password. He was going to beat my mother to death, and then me. I was fully confident of it. Whatever had set him off earlier had sent him into this inhuman point of rage, and I had only made it worse. It had never been this bad.
"Think, Riley, think," I mumbled to myself. What would it be? I tried various codes, none of them working. The various combinations of my mother and I's birthdays proved useless, as did our birth years. What could it be, and why didn't I know? The shouting continued from downstairs, and it was going both ways this time. I had to act fast.
I quickly recalled a date in my head, and then I knew I had it. I tried the numbers in the safe, and it worked. The year my dad finally left. My mother always said it was the best year of her life; he had left spinelessly, leaving just her and me to live a much more content life together. I saw the gun immediately, and without thinking, I grabbed it. How was I even supposed to do this? I had never touched this gun before; I had merely known of its existence.
I knew I was making the right decision. Even if I didn't kill him, I could end this once and for all. I wouldn't get in trouble, right? This kind of stuff had happened before, and the abuser was still the bad guy, not the one who put the victim out of their misery by killing him. Well, maybe it did happen all the time, but I don't think the killer was often the teenaged girl who had been gossiping with her friends about boys a mere two hours earlier.
Killer. That was a title that I wasn't comfortable with, yet I was coming to terms with doing this. I wasn't some serial killer or anything like that. I was saving my mother's life, and probably my own, too, so this was going to be okay. I just had to do it. Maybe "just get it over with" wasn't the attitude to have, but it was the one I was adopting.
I turned around, holding the gun to my side, although I was terrified I was going to accidentally shoot my leg with it somehow. I had no idea what I was doing. Well, I was aware of the act and the potential consequences, but I didn't understand the technical aspect. Did I just point and shoot? What if it didn't fire? For all I knew, there were no bullets in the thing.
Quickly walking down the stairs, I was completely aware that I had to act fast. My whole plan could completely turn on me in an absolutely horrible way if anyone knew what I was doing. My hands were still shaking as I walked, and I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I had made it this far; I had to keep going and follow through. As much as I would rather run out the door and never come back, I had to do this for my mom. I had to do this for us.
I took my final step, putting myself in full view. This time, it was as if my mom was waiting for me, as she was looking right at me. I gestured with my head for her to move to the side, even though that might be hard for her to accomplish. As I did, I felt another pang of pain in my nose, slightly dulled by the adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I chose to ignore it. My mother stepped aside, and before she had an idea of what I was doing, I pointed the weapon.
"Riley, stop!" she shrieked when she saw, but it was too late. I hadn't pulled the trigger, but I had made my decision. He was still barely looking at me; he had no idea. I took another single step, cautiously so I didn't make a sound, and gave myself a final second to fully come to terms with what I was doing.
I was making the decision to kill someone. Would I ever have guessed I would be doing this if I asked myself fifteen minutes earlier? Not a chance. This was so spur of the moment, so impulsive, yet I knew it was the right thing to do. It would make my mother and me safe, something I had been craving for months. I had to get it done.
I pulled the trigger, somewhat cautiously, scrunching my face in fear of the sound that was going to emit from what I was holding. That made my face hurt even more, but I remembered what I was doing. The person who had almost certainly broken my nose was the recipient of the bullet I had just fired.
It hit him right in the chest. I must say now that it was pretty impressive for the girl who had never touched any sort of weapon before. The people I was surrounded with every day now would be even more in awe of me than they are now. Okay, maybe they aren't in awe of me now, but they would be. Gabriel would be pretty impressed.
He fell to the ground upon the bullet's impact, and I jumped at the thud. I looked at the object in my hand, still barely able to put two and two together, and placed the small, black weapon on the counter beside me, not wanting to touch it ever again. With absolutely no idea of how to proceed, I looked to my mother.
"What have you done?" she asked, shocked. I continued to stare back at her. I didn't know what to say, how to even try to formulate a response. "Riley, you've killed him." Even though I was fully aware of the fact, those words hit me harder. Her solemn tone had pierced the silence travelling through the house. Maybe since my name was accompanied with the fact, I felt more responsible. This was really my doing.
"I know," I replied softly, shaking out of control. The amount of adrenaline and shock I was experiencing felt dangerous. I had literally just killed somebody. It wasn't a dream. This was all too real, and even though I knew what I was doing and made the conscious decision to continue, I didn't know how to react. My mom looked at my trembling figure, swearing under her breath. Hoping she wasn't too furious with me, I stared back at her, even though I didn't fully know what I was doing. I wondered if she realized what had happened; I barely did, really.
"What are we supposed to do now?" she inquired, as if I had an answer. All I knew was that while, yes, there was a dead man on the kitchen floor, if I didn't get my nose checked out I was probably going to pass out from the pain.
"Hell if I know," I mumbled, wishing I had an answer for her. This was kind of my mess to get out of. My mom went to the phone hanging on the wall of the kitchen, and I rushed over to stop her.
"You can't call the cops," I half-stated, half-begged. I didn't want to go to jail. But, maybe I should've thought of that before.
"What do you expect us to do, Riley? Hide the body and leave town?" she said, exasperated. I cringed at her tone.
"Fine, call them. It doesn't matter anymore," I said, tears stinging the back of my eyes.
I knew I did the right thing. Today, I look back with no regrets. When I was only fifteen, and knew nothing beyond my own personal experience, I couldn't see how other people would view me, or how law enforcement would react. Certain I would be pegged as some common criminal, I of course had absolutely no desire for the police to be informed. Little did I know, I was going to be dismissed of the manslaughter charge eventually, and even though I would be "the girl who shot her mother's boyfriend" for the rest of my high school years, it would all be okay in the end. Better, in fact. Maybe this wasn't the incident that inspired my career choices, but it had to be a factor. Absolutely everything happens for a reason, and as much as I wish the lead up to me firing a gun for the first (but definitely not last) time had been much shorter, preferably nonexistent, it still had its place in my life. I just had to wait for the reason to reveal itself.