Light in Her Eyes

     My mother had been my best friend since I could remember. Every child is naturally connected to the person who gave birth to them, but in this case, I knew the relationship I had with her was uncommon. It wasn't the type of relationship you're probably thinking about. She never did anything inappropriate to me, nor did she beat or abuse me. We were just very close and I loved her.

     When I was born, my family was intact and beautiful. My father ran a million dollar company with his best friend. They brought in incredible money so I was never left to suffer or starve. My parents were happy, glowing even, with the love they had for each other. I didn't know it at the time, but I could feel the love my mom had for my father and my father had for her. But as I grew older, things began to change.

     Even though my father made millions of dollars every year, my mother insisted she work. All the other millionaire wives treated her like she was beneath them, just because she had a sense of independence. I look back on it now and I admire that quality in my mother. Even though she had everything in the world, completely at her fingertips, she kept herself grounded. But my father hated that about her. He was a control freak, always needing to have things done the way he thought was best. They began to fight about it, among other things. Her independence, her friends, it all irritated him. He wanted her all to himself, body, mind, and soul.

     Mom always had time for me, though, even with a job and father pressuring her to do what he wanted. We did everything together. Whether we went to the movies, played board games, or just went for a walk, we were inseparable. But father, he stopped caring about me when my mother wouldn't obey him. He looked at me scornfully every time we were in the same room but, usually, that didn’t happen very often. He threw himself into his work, uncaring about the life of his only child.

     As I aged even more, my father continued to bully my mother into doing what he wanted. She continued to resist his pressures to give up what she wanted in life. She loved him, I knew she did. She told me so every night when I asked as she tucked me into bed.

     "Mommy, do you love father?" I would ask, naively waiting to hear that my family was okay. I often saw her crying when I would come home from school every day, and it scared me. Sometimes, I would see her in the downstairs bathroom, crying silently and putting stuff on her face before she shooed me away.

     "I love him very much, darling." She would say slowly. "But you, my little love, are my world. I would give my life for yours any day, any hour, of any year." I would smile at her and she would read me a bedtime story until I drifted to sleep.

     It was an exceptionally dull day when my life was uprooted into chaos. I had gone to school as usual, kissing my mother goodbye as I did every day. Father was always gone before I went to school, and I figured he wouldn't want to say goodbye to me anyway. I got out of school and took the bus home before walking the two blocks to my house from my bus stop with the rest of the spoiled rich kids in my neighborhood.

     I got to my front door and pulled out my key and stepped inside. I didn't realize it then, but the atmosphere was cold and cruel. Somehow, it told me what was coming, but I was too young to notice.

     Nearly every day for the last five years of my life, my mother would greet me at the door when I came home. But she was nowhere in sight. The foyer was empty, the TV was off and my mother’s soothing music was not playing.

     I had thrown my backpack down next to the door and called for her. "Mom?" But no response came from within the dead silence of the house.

     I ventured upstairs to the second floor. Maybe she was playing a game for me to come and find her, I had thought.

     At first when I reached the top landing of the second floor, the entire house was still. The eerie silence was weighing on my little shoulders without my realizing.

     But then, the screaming started. It was an earsplitting, death defying wail of agony that still churns my stomach when I think about it to this day. The screams were mixed with heart wrenching pleas, begging the assailant to stop their attack.

     As soon as my mind understood what I was hearing, the sound of my mother being hurt by someone, I ran to the door that it was coming from. And I realized it was coming from my father's study. He never let anyone in there, not even the maid to clean. I was forbidden, and I knew what punishments I would face when my father came home that day. But, I thought, dad will understand! I have to save mom!

     And so I grabbed the handle and turned it slowly, pushing the door open just a tad to see inside.

     I didn't have to wait for dad to come home that day, because he was already there.

     I stood in the doorway, peering in the tiny crack in the door that I had made by opening it. My mind stopped working completely, something that I will regret for the rest of my life.

     My father had my mother by the throat, pinning her down to his desk as he smacked her in the face, punched at her stomach, he aimed at any part of her body that he could cause harm. Mom's face was red as she spluttered uncontrollably, but she fought back. She kept swinging her arms at him, kicking up her legs and twisting all sorts of ways so he would lose his grip. Until finally she hit him in a place that made him stumble and fall on his back, making him release his grip.

     She got up as soon as she caught her breath, but he was already up, and I watched as he drew a gun from behind his back.

     "You should have listened to me, you little bitch."

     "Mommy!" Finally unfrozen, I screamed for my mother and threw open the door. They both turned to face me, my mother's eyes wide with horror and a cynical grin on my father's face.

     "Drake, run!"

     But I had stayed in my place in the doorway, my mom in the middle of the room and my father still by the desk. And then, my father turned the gun, pointed it at me and said, "I told you, you should have listened."

     He pulled the trigger.

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     On this day, ten years ago, my mother jumped in front of the bullet that was meant to end my life. She had given me life, and hers was taken away because of me.

     My father went to jail for first degree murder, and he lost nearly everything. He ended up being killed not even two years into his sentence. The cops told me he got into a scuffle with another inmate and the inmate killed him with a stolen knife from the kitchen. I didn't really give a damn.

     I'm at a bar now, just after coming from my mother's grave. I plan to drink away the pain; maybe the blackout drunkenness I plan to achieve tonight will block out the nightmares of my ten year old self watching my mother's terrified, horror-filled eyes lose their light to save mine.

(I also used this story to do a digital media story for my speech class. You can watch the video for this story here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhgrutf4NoI )