You struggle in a panic, sensing the danger even as you lose the where and when of the present, but your efforts are useless against the rising force of the black tide that blanks out everything in your mind except what you're forced to remember.
...
You crouch over the lifeless furry body of your faithful dog, crying like you've never cried before. "You killed her!" you scream at your mother. You feel desperately for a sign of life beneath her fur, but there is none. The only constant warmth in your life, the only one who felt anything like a real mother to you and gave you unconditional love, is gone.
For the first time, your brother's face shows sympathy for you, and shock at what happened, glancing between you and the dog. Apparently this is enough to bother even him. He's your parents' darling, and he's never before shown any concern for how you or the dog are treated.
He devotes most of his time to building his image as a highly moral, upstanding person. You'd once caught him writing anonymous fan mail about himself and his acts of self-sacrifice to the local newspaper. He'll do anything to increase his popularity and stay on his parents' good side.
But he never said a word the dozens of times you were bruised, while he was left unscathed, or when your mother threatened to get rid of your dog, screaming that you loved the dog more than her.
He didn't say anything when she suddenly let the dog out of the car in the middle of a busy road in town and then drove away with the three of you. You'd had to walk for miles to find your dog again, scared all the time she'd been run over and hurt or killed, or lost forever.
You'd gotten the idea somewhere that an older brother was supposed to defend his sister, but he never has in his life. Instead, he often joins in while your mother berates and insults you, occasionally helping her to chase you down for another beating.
Until now. "Mom, that's-why did you-," he starts to protest haltingly, moving forward almost as if he's going to get between your mother and you. Then he stops, trapped and frozen with a sharp glance from your mother at him as she whips her head around.
Her hand tightens on her blunt weapon, and you wince, wondering what or who she's going to hit next.
But as small as it was, your brother's action changes you, showing you that someone else thinks this is terribly wrong. In the short time your mother's head is turned away from you, it's as if a lifelong trance has been broken. "Never again," silent words start murmuring in your mind.
Every other time before, you'd let yourself be hit by her, since protesting or crying just triggered her predatory side so that she beat you even more brutally. When you were little, there was no other option.
But now, you suddenly realize, you're a teenager. You might be small and weak for your age, but you're no longer a child staring up at a powerful giant. Maybe if your dog thought you were worth defending, you should too.
Your despair is overcome by anger, and the anger turns into resolve and action. You rise up and push your mother away from you until her back hits the opposite wall.
You're holding her arms away from you so she can't hit you, not actually hurting her but showing a fierceness that had never been there before. Your arm throbs where she'd fractured it with the bat, but you're past worrying about the pain.
Her eyes show sudden panic and fear, and a growing realization of what your expression is saying to her. "It's over," it says without words. "Your days of doing this to me, and to those I love, are done."
Suddenly, your father moves in, and grabs your arm roughly. He'd been sitting so mutely, working on his computer and watching TV, seemingly oblivious, that you hadn't even realized when he'd stood up.
"You're out of control!" he bellows at you.
You look at him disbelievingly. Surely he wasn't going to take her side even now-!
"Why are you being such a jerk," he says, his words insanely disproportionate to the situation.
"She killed my dog!" you hiss, almost baring your teeth. You've been pushed to almost the absolute edge, and you don't have much left.
"It's your own fault for misbehaving! You're like an animal, you're so out of control!" he yells, puffing out his chest and making sure you're aware of his large stature and bulging muscles. "Let her go!" he orders.
He pulls at you, yanking you away. You see your father clench his fist, and know he's considering hitting you. He doesn't do it often, but you know he's capable of it, from past experience. When he does, he does a lot more damage than your mother.
Not just physically, but emotionally. He acts like he's in your corner some of the time. He often gives you expensive presents during family holidays and compliments you for doing well at school. He even occasionally takes you down to his workshop and does small projects with you. It makes you start to think that he really cares, and that you're a real person, not just a shadow flitting around trying not to be noticed.
But then he does things like this. The fact that he often acts nicer to you than she does makes it all the more gut-wrenching when he betrays you like this and takes her side. It hurts worse than the physical pain. You often wish he would just be mean all the time like her, because it would be less painful.
He draws back his arm, closing his hand into a fist-
At that moment, the sense of injustice peaks inside you, and you feel nothing but primal fear and rage.
They would never know it, but at that exact moment they lost a daughter forever.
"Don't you care she was hitting me!? Have you ever cared?" you yell at him, crossing your arms over your face to try to protect yourself. "My face is black and blue!"
How crazy to ask that question of someone about to hit you, a wiser part of you thinks sardonically.
He hesitates, seeing the change in you. His usual bullying tactics aren't going to work. You're beyond giving in to threats of violence.
"If you do anything to her, I'm calling the police," he says, suddenly switching tactics and dropping his arm. He's playing the rational authority figure now.
"And I'll tell them she was hitting me!" you scream, completely at your emotional limit. "She killed my dog!"
"I'll tell them you were out of control and it was self-defense. We'll all say that," he says in a self-satisfied way, looking at your brother and mother for confirmation. Your mother nods in agreement.
Your brother just stares blankly straight ahead with too-wide, too-bright eyes, as if he's hypnotized, until he realizes they're gazing expectantly at him, and then he nods quickly.
Your face tenses with disappointment. "You should know better," your expression says to him. He'd been your last hope. He looks away, ashamed.
"Fuck you," you say quietly, your voice ragged. "Fuck all of you."
You turn, almost blind now from tears, and stumble away and head to your room. Crying and blubbering silently lest they should hear, you gather a few of your things in your backpack and in an old worn piece of luggage.
You go to the garage and get your little red wagon out, a childhood toy. Not meeting their eyes, you gather up your dead dog in your arms, put her in the wagon, and leave the house.
You know you're an embarrassing and maybe even terrifying sight in front of the neighbors as you walk down the sidewalk, face bruised, pulling a dead dog, with tears streaming down your face. You wonder if your family will try to get you to come back, but you don't hear anyone calling out after you.
The clasp on your luggage breaks as you carry it, and all your clothes fly out. You have to gather it all up again and figure out a way to tie it closed, feeling like the whole neighborhood's watching you. You're hyperventilating with panic, and your heart is pounding.
You only relax a little when you've gotten five blocks away, not even caring which direction you're going. That's when the adrenaline ebbs away and the sadness hits you with full force. You pull the wagon off the side of the road to a semi-private cluster of trees and bushes, where you knee over the body of your friend and wail.