Muffled

A short story about a fight that turns tragic, from a child's point of view.

            Tears stream down my face slowly, drop by drop dripping off my chin and moistening the floor that they fall upon. I can hear their voices still, despite that I have locked myself off from them. They yell, they throw things; I hear the smash of glass and assume that was one of grandma's china plates, which Dad had been holding earlier, before I had run away. Mom screams, letting free her anger with her vocal cords. I cringe at the sound, wishing with all my heart that such a scream is never directed at me.

            I put my hands over my ears, muffling the sounds. I sit down on the floor and curl up among the old stuffed animals and clothing that have been placed on the floor of the closet. My tears continue to fall down my face, now streaming down onto my hand and making the suction between my ears and my palms stronger. But still I hear them.

            Someone slams a door, but the tell tale creak seconds later informs me that the door has been opened again right after. More yelling, something heavy is thrown causing a loud thud as the object lands on the carpet. I hear a sharp forceful noise and know that one of my parents has hit the other. This only causes my tears to come faster, sobs tickling at my throat, as I will myself to remain silent.

            This is not the first time this has happened, not even the first time this week. But each time it feels the same, it hurts the same. Why two people, who once loved each other so much, can fight as they do is a mystery to me. I don't understand it at all and I'm not sure I ever will. Maybe when I am older and married I too will fight, but I don't want to. I don't want my parents to fight. I love them. And what if they hurt each other? What if one of them leaves?

            I hear a scream, a scream of terror this time and I try to block it all out again. I imagine the playground at school, playing with my friends, visiting my cousins. I try everything I can, but the sounds of screams and fighting won't stop reaching my ears. Wouldn't the neighbors be able to hear all of this? Don't you think someone would come over to check on the family? Well, they used to come over. But now, this fighting seemed routine. The neighbors ignore the screams coming from my house, brushing them off as just another fight, waiting for the noise to die down so they could go on with their lives.

            Soon, I hear one of them come upstairs. They are quiet, moving slowly, so by their steps I don't know who it is. I swallow my breath, hoping they will not look for me. I hear the sounds of drawers opening and things being moved. The soft sound of sniffling can be heard as this person, my parent, packs their bag. Then this person leaves, goes down the stairs, and softly closes the door behind them. The house is silent.

            I wait for a few moments, unsure of what to do. Then slowly, I creep out of the closet. My head tentatively poking out from behind the door. I tiptoe down the stairs, admiring the destruction my parents caused to the living room below me. I take a step into the kitchen, looking around for where my parents could have gone. I then see Mom, lying on the couch in Dad's office across the way. She is turned away from me; she looks like she is sleeping. I smile and walk over to her, touching her back, hoping to wake her.

            But she doesn't move, she doesn't make a sound.

            I will soon find out that she is dead. Smashed over the head by Dad, her husband. He then left, fled the scene of the murder he committed. Leaving me in this house to clean up the mess of my life, a dead mother and a guilty father, alone.