12.

A Story by Mavs

December 24th, 2012, the night before Christmas. Twenty four hours of yearning and incomprehensible excitement running through the children’s blood. Happiness rained upon most families, and yet, pain and suffering took over many others. Crime does not take a break on holidays, for it is a twenty-four-seven job, three-sixty-five per year.

Attempted murder. Victim: one woman. Accused: guilty.

The riot started with the two ex couple, an argument over the custody of their son. They had broken up a few months before, and moved out of their home, rented it out, the mother taking in her three children: two daughters and one son. She had divorced in the past, as so the daughters were not this man’s, the son being the half-brother of the siblings. This man, he wanted his child. He cared not for the two females, one twelve, one ten, but for the eight year old son with his flesh and blood, the same plumpness of their fat, and the same face shape, with chubby cheeks and the pouting lips that old women in Chinatown laughed about and fawned over.

The fight that evening clouded into an intense hollering bundle, two grown adults screaming in rapid Cantonese at each other in the confines of the small apartment; one stood at the door of the entrance to honor the grandparents who were also in the room yet ironically cursing so that any elderly of their age might just faint, and the other planted herself on the other side of the room, with the poor boy in the middle, quite literally in the middle, grossly sobbing and creating more noise in the background. Stop fighting, he choke out. Stop!

The ten year old girl stood on the stairs and crept peeks of the argument and took it all in. Her own tears fell, too, and the grandparents took notice, taking part and gave fierce glares at the man, looks that clearly stated that he was not welcomed here, but the man gave no matter and merely kept going, going, going, until the woman’s tongue lashed out, the sharpest words that hit home for the male, so close, so infuriating, so, so, so!

He charged at her. Well, not exactly charging, not exactly, but an action similar to charging. Something similar, the second daughter stated to the police after. Nevertheless, the man had // // the woman, ramming her against the screen fence of the balcony, pushing through, and slamming her back on top the railing that kept all the pots and plants that the family cared for, balancing her on two inches of metal, 14 stories high above the incoming traffic below. I’ll drop you, he threatened, and to which she replied, drop me. Do it. I dare you, but her hands clung onto the back of his neck, his hands on her waist that clamped her down being the one and only raw form of support from this position and height she was being held at.

The roar of the traffic, the noises from behind, as the clamoring family grabbed at the back of his shirt, pulling him away from the balcony, the boy crying and shrieking, the second daughter screaming in terror with streaks of tears flowing, non-stop, running up the stairs, crying, crying, crying. One could not understand the chaos of the situation if they were not present in the situation, the screaming and the shock.

Yes, one could not simply understand.

The twelve year old, fresh out of the shower, barely heard the screams over the rushing sound of water as she bathed. Carefully, reluctantly, she trudged down the steps, unknowing to the tossed up fuss. Ah, we’re doing something on the balcony. She blatantly ignored them and reached for her iPod resting on the couch. Call the police, the grandpa motioned, call them! Dazed, confusion, grasping for the flip phone fallen between the cushions of the couch, the uncharged phone of the twelve’s completely useless. She stood there, in shock. Oh, dear. Frozen, head to toe.

A few days later, as she returned to school, she laughed it off. Mommy was almost killed, she said to her fellow seventh graders, her best friends. And they thought she was fine, for she acted as she did, without a care in the world. They also laughed it off. The only thing you'd miss if she were gone would be... Someone to pay for the WIFI, the twelve year old responds with a grin.

A country girl who moved to the city from Nebraska shot her a look. Are you alright? A weary smile. "I'm fine."

Yes, I still do not understand.

© 2015 Mavs

Author's Note

Based on a real life experience. Most of this is true (what happened, how things happened). Not really descriptive, as to how everything is a complete blur to me when I attempt to recall it. It was 2013 when my mother's ex-boyfriend, who had been with her for an estimated 10 years, nearly murdered her on Christmas Eve. He's currently taking anger management classes. Ah, his birthday was two weeks ago. I did not say a thing.

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Reviews

sohadtolba

Oh my God!!! And he got away with it??? Did he really throw her?? Just like that??? I am really sorry for the experience and what you went through... and do you want to say a thing to the man killed your mum??

Well i am sure this experience will make you strong. Take good care of your brother and sister, protect them and yourself.. your writing is the first step of moving on. I suggest that you would talk with someone professional, it will help you and your family a lot...