I’m four years old - maybe five.

I wake up in the front bedroom. Dark. Noises.

My grandma’s voice -
“you get out!”

His thundering voice -
“No! These are my kids - Mine. You can’t stop me. You old bitch. Goddam queen bitch.”

We’re both awake, Punk and I. The baby sleeps in the bassinet.

The door opens. Light comes on. It’s him, he’s furious. He’s weaving. He stumbles “god dammit!”

Nannie follows him in; her voice is shrill: “You get out now! You leave us alone!”

They’re at the foot of the bed.
She grabs for his arm; he pushes her away.

She falls back and we can’t see her.
I start shaking, can’t stop. “Dad??” Punk says.

He moves toward us, around the corner to my side.
“It’s okay. Don’t’ be scared.” I’m whimpering.
“Stop it! It’s okay I said.”
He moves to us. He smells, a sour smell I know. It scares me, that smell. “It’s okay, I’m taking you with me.”

He takes my hand but I pull away; he can’t get hold. “It’s okay...”

He scoops me in his arms, he reeks and he’s so strong.
His voice is raspy, he scares me.
“I’m taking you away from here. Shh..... It’s okay, I’m taking you with me.”


I see Nannie coming up from the floor; she screams at him “Get out! You won’t take them!”

I try to get away. He drops me onto the bed.
He moves away from us to Nannie.
Punk and I are screaming, we scramble to the pillows.

Nannie stands up at the foot of the bed, “get out!” she screams. He moves to her and punches her. She falls; we scream as he staggers to her again.

He comes back to us. “It’s okay, I’m taking you away from here.” Nannie moves, she tries to get up; he lunges to her and punches her again. “Old bitch!”

Punk grabs me and we run.

We go to the kitchen, to the phone. He calls the Operator.

Tells her, “it’s my dad,
he’s punching my grandma.
Nannie.
He’s beating her bloody.
He’s killing her.”

He sounds so scared.
I’m shaking, my teeth chatter.
He pulls me to the door and we go outside.

That’s all I remember.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next morning I wake up in the front bedroom.
I go into the hallway and Punk is standing at Nannie’s door.
It’s closed.
He motions me to him. Opens the door.

She’s there, in bed, she’s sleeping.

We move to the bed, the side of the bed.
Her face is bloody, it’s black and blue.

Streaks of blood on her pillow.
There’s some on the sheet,
on the floor.

It wasn’t a dream.

“Is she dead?”

“No,” Punk says.
“She’s breathing, see?”

There’s so much blood.

Again, I start shaking, I can’t stop.

Punk takes my hand, pulls me out of the room.
I can hardly walk, I’m shaking so.
He takes me to the kitchen table, helps me up on a chair.

“It’s okay,” he says.
“No,” I say.

I watch him.
He goes to the fridge, pulls out the milk. Goes to the cupboard.

I’m shaking, I can’t stay there.
I crawl down and under the table, into the far corner.

I watch him pour milk into a cup, he turns around.
Bends down so he can see me.

He crawls under the table, hands me the milk.

I’m shaking so he holds my hand around the cup.

“It’s okay,” he says.
“It’s okay.”