The storm raged in full force. 

“No! Stop it! Stop it, you’re hurting me! “ My mother’s screams rang throughout the house. 

I sat terrified in my hiding spot. My knees were clenched tightly to my chest, my tiny hands trembling. 

The anger swept over my stepfather like the darkest of tempests, black clouds covering his face in a spittle-strewn mask of angry rage.  

“Please stop hitting me!" My mother’s fearful pleas went unheeded in the howling rage of the madman’s torrential outburst. 

“Shut up, bitch!” It was a guttural, demonic growl, barely retaining  any semblance of a human voice. 

“I-I-I can’t breathe.” The hoarse whisper sounded almost like a whistle.  He was really hurting her this time. 

He’s killing my mom. But what can I do? I’m just a kid. If I make a sound he will find me and unleash his fury upon me.

“Pleeeeease . . ." Now her voice was a mere wheeze. She was begging the raging tornado for her life, but my childish mind felt she was calling directly to me 

God damnit I’m just a kid.  I’m just a kid. I’m just a kid.  He’s going to kill me if I make a sound. But, he’s killing my mom. Fuck it.  

“Stop it!” My words burst forth loud and shrill. Louder than I had hoped. Louder than I had wished. The reaction was immediate. Everything stopped. 

His heavy footsteps thudded across the floor, followed by their door opening. Then he was in the hallway.  

Panic and terror were my only companions, ever-present and unrelenting, permeating my very existence. His work boots, one unlaced, came into sight three feet from where I was hiding.  

The raging squalls were quiet now, but this was far from my first hurricane. I knew this was merely the eye of the storm. If he found me, I was dead. 

Don’t make a sound. Don’t make a sound. I’m so dead.  I’m so dead.  God help me. But if God was there that day, he wasn't talking.

I tried hard not to wet my pants while I rode a fear so grippingly terrifying I could taste it in my mouth. A fear not meant for children. 

The beast stood there for maybe ten seconds, listening. It felt like an eternity as the sound of my heart pounded in my ears like a drum and I held my breath. I was trapped in the storm. 

Then he stomped down the stairs cursing under his breath about how the bitch had made him do it.  Once the door slammed and the car raced out of the driveway, I could breathe again. 

The storm had passed. Now it was time for the ambulance and the stories. Time for the adults to pretend that my mother had taken such a terrible fall that it choked her unconscious and blackened her eyes. Time for the lies. 

It was always such a relief when the storms passed from the house that was never a home. The faux calmness brought respite. That is until the next storm started to brew.