Last Straw

The crash of a glass shattering woke me up. I climbed out of bed and padded out of the small bedroom I shared with my half-sisters. The kitchen was at the other end of the short hallway. There was no door, the yelling and screaming echoed through the house. Mum and Dad were fighting again, shouting words that my four-year-old brain couldn't understand. Money, drugs, bills, budget, none of these things had meaning for me. The yelling was scary. They were throwing things at each other, the kitchen table between them. Our parents fighting was normal, as was moving house every six months or so because Dad couldn't keep a job. I stood silently in the doorway, watching them with wide eyes and a pounding heart, unable to interfere or go back to bed. Shards of glass and porcelain lay scattered on the plain wooden floorboards, twinkling in the light of the dim bulb in the ceiling. I felt a presence at my side and looked down. My younger sister was standing beside me, gazing into the kitchen. I covered her eyes with my hands, wanting to shield her from the violence. Dad's older daughter was staying with her mother in the city. The scrape of wood on wood drew my attention back to the kitchen and I saw Dad in the act of shoving the table at Mum. It collided with her stomach, forcing her backwards into the wall. She was bent over, hands against the edge of the table, shock and pain on her face. A gasp escaped me, a mixture of terror and concern. Dad turned and spotted us. His eyes, already glaring furiously, narrowed even more and he screamed at us to get out and go back to bed. I grabbed my sister's hand and half-dragged her down the hallway to our room, where we huddled together on my bed with the blankets over our heads.

The next morning the house was eerily silent. Mum got us out of bed, fed us toast and sent us out the back door to play. An hour later, we hear a car pull up out the front and both of us run to see who it is as visitors are rare. We recognise the car as soon as we see it, and shriek with joy. Our grandparents get out and greet us before helping Mum load our belongings into the car and trailer. We are both in the car when Dad makes an appearance, frowning at the sight of the full trailer. He and Mum have a heated conversation that we hear snatches of through the open windows. Dad seemed to want my sister to stay with him, Mum was refusing. She said their deal was off because he couldn't look after himself, let alone a three-year-old. Grandma got in the car as Grandpa moved towards Mum and Dad. He said a few words to them and they both calmed down. He and Mum got in the car and we waved at Dad. He waved back then stomped into the house, slamming the door. We drove to Grandma and Grandpa's house, where Mum said we would be living for a while. When things settled down, we began staying with Dad or his parents every second weekend. Grandpa put a house on a block of land he owned behind his own place, and we moved into it. Mum is happy that we have our own home and starts dating again. We get to see our grandparents on a daily basis and have a bigger room to share. There is less yelling now, and less smoke-filled bottles laying around, but with Mum the peace is always short-lived. Her temper is quick to flare up, and we are the only ones in the house for her to turn her anger onto now. During the day outside is my refuge, my safety, at night my imagination takes me far away.