Throwing Punches Under Water

Throwing Punches under Water
Thirteen years of dealing with inconsistency and chaos had passed before this crisp, October evening. I do not know why I thought this night would be any different. “Why do things like this always have to happen?” I asked myself.
The headlights of an old, dented and rusty Toyota Camry were blinding as they pierced my eyes before finally dying in my driveway. I felt a pit in my stomach similar to the one you feel on a rollercoaster, when you are at the peak of the track, just before dropping down. Without any hesitation, two figures approached the door I guarded. I stood there like a soldier on the frontlines, at the brink of an attack. Lava ran through my veins.
“Where is she?” a young, deep voice requested. Times like those I wish I’d actually gone for that ride with my dad.
I snapped back with a weapon all too familiar to a teenage girl.
“Umm... who? Where is who?” Any courtesy from the strangers was abandoned with the attitude that my voice had just exhibited. Now they meant business.
Now the shorter and huskier of the two men spoke up. “Joanne. Where’s Joanne? She owes me money.”
I felt the recognizable indents in my forehead begin to take shape. With each word I processed, the pit-bull inside me began to take over. I started talking to myself in quiet, undertones that went unheard to anyone but me; “I know this situation. I have been here before. I have been here too many times in the past couple of months. This time I’m going to do something different. I need to get these guys out of here.” All the while knowing that anything I did on this one particular night couldn’t possibly fix the problem.
Every muscle in my body was tense; like thousands of Spartan warriors ready to take on Athens. The attitude of that teenage girl in me transformed at this point into nothing but fiery rage.
“Get out of here or I’m calling the cops!” I growled, fully aware that I was hardly a threat.
The two statues began to examine me with their eyes now. It was obvious that they had initially underestimated my knowledge of what was going on. As they exchanged inquisitive glances with eachother, again my thoughts began to whisper in my head; “Do they think I’m stupid? Or just naïve? As if I wouldn’t know why two men in their early twenties were looking for my mom. And for money.”
Instead of staying to test my trivial threat, they turned away. I studied each step they took expecting a rebuttal. Nothing. Finally, as I watched them slam the doors on that maroon, metal, piece of junk and start the engine, relief almost overcame me. Then I felt a push from behind. At that moment my instincts told me “tonight’s battle had only just begun.”


Liquid Courage
She approached her male counterpart as he loudly marched up the back steps. “Thud... thud… thud” his work boots bellowed. He attempted to walk past her as if she were a ghost, but he had known from daily experience that was utterly impossible. The familiar scent of vodka and cigarettes reached his nostrils as he took a breath in and cringed.
“Whea tha hell is dinna? I been at work all day. I don’t have time for this shit again, Joanne”. These days that was usually the first thing my dad said when he got in the door. Never a ‘hi’ or ‘how was your day?’ That would have been less than normal. Plus, it was easy to understand why he entered with the same attitude day after day, considering what he was coming home to.
As I watched my mother from the living room couch, waiting for her response, I noticed that she was wearing the same clothes she had worn the day before. My father must wonder where the once healthy and beautiful free spirit he’d fallen in love with had gone. It was safe to say the shorts she was wearing could have fit my 5 year old cousin. Although, that didn’t take away from the fact that they still fit her emaciated body. I could see in the shrinking of her bloodshot, beady eyes she was getting ready to snap back.
“How dare you talk to me like that” she slurred in a sloppy, drawn out tone of voice. As she said this she looked my father up and down like a bully does before a fight.
At this point I was entering the kitchen where my father sat taking off his boots and my mother stood in a drunken stupor. I butted in “yeah mom, I’m hungry, too, and I have freshmen basketball tryouts tonight… what are we havin to eat?”
Her face wrinkled up and she looked at me like I had just spoken another language to her. She grabbed my arm with her thin, boney hands and leaned in close to my face.
“Listen, kid, I had shit to do all day. Aight? Make your own damn dinna.”
Each word she spoke made me flinch. I couldn’t stand to look at the yellow tint of her teeth and shriveled up lips as she spoke to me. The shell she lived inside was starting to die, reflecting the mess it hid inside. Paradoxically, the poison that killed her was also the only medicine she had to help her face the world each day.
As she released me from the skeletal grip, she pushed me and stumbled out of the kitchen, catching herself on walls and bumping off things like a pinball. I looked at my dad but didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. As my mother staggered out of the room, she left us both in a state of familiar unsolved fury.


Broken-down Palace

The sun was low in the sky as I peered out of my bedroom window which overlooked the cement pathway leading up to the front door beneath me. The sunlight fell harshly onto the hood of my moms’ blood red Jeep Cherokee which sat in the driveway. There was once a time, I remembered, when everyday it shined like a brand new car in a show room. I examined the impression the telephone pole had left on the drivers’ side. Briefly, thinking to myself, “if only the crash had left a mark”… quickly regretting the intentions of my vicious contemplation. “She’ll never learn” I concluded before my attention was redirected to the sharp feeling of cold wind on my skin.
As the wind blew, it moved through the ripped screen, while the almost free piece flowed loosely in the breeze. Something about that feeling of cold, guiltless wind striking me fiercely coincided with my innermost feelings. While I tried to relax and rid my mind of the flashing blue lights that I had watched from the same place the night before, I tuned in with empathy on the sounds coming from the adjacent room. I could hear my younger brother talking to himself like most 5 year old boys did, as he played with his toys – not having a worry in the world. I silently rose from my crouched position and tiptoed to the crack left open in his door.
The walls wore a mellow blue like the sky on a spring morning and the rug depicted a city with empty roads waiting for his toy trucks to drive on them. The bed stood highly off the ground, but a dark blue comforter covered with baseballs and bats, hid the space beneath. For a moment I envied him for his environment. It was simple. Innocent. Untouched. Then my heart sank to think of his future. Would it fall to the same fate as mine did?
“Samantha! Get down hea and start foldin’ laundry before ya fatha gets home! I don’t have time to deal with it tonight!” my mom screamed to me up the stairs. The echo of her voice interrupted my attempt at any moments of tranquility.
“Okay. I’ll be down in a minute” I muttered unenthused as I took once last glance at my little brother before heading to the dungeon.
I began to shiver as soon as I walked through the cellar door. As I headed for the stairs I hesitantly searched for the splintered railing, like a blind man searched for the edge of a curb before crossing a busy street. All I could see was a vast space of black before navigating my way to the bottom, where the light switch hadn’t been totally ripped off of the wall. Each stair I took shrieked loudly at me two times; first with the weight of my body stepping down, then with the lifting of each foot. When I reached the bottom I flicked on the fragile light switch that hung on the wall, like a leaf hung on a tree in the beginning of autumn. When I saw the chore that awaited me, I felt like turning around and marching back up the stairs. The laundry pile was almost as tall as my fifty-six inch figure. I shrugged and began to fold anyway.
The more clothes I folded, the more the muscles in my hands tightened. The smell of must that engulfed me, made me cringe. I looked around and felt the walls closing in on me. It was like being trapped in a submarine. The ceiling hung low, displaying uncovered vents which led to the furnace in front of me. In attempt to cover the jail-like floors, miscellaneous rugs were laid out erratically over the cement. I couldn’t stand to look around me any longer.
Finally, I finished the pile that took an eternity to fold. Two equally tall stacks of clothes stood before me. I could go back up into the safety zone I called my room and escape once again.
Before I switched off the light and stepped back onto the naked wooden steps, I looked back at what I had just completed. The mound of scraps I had molded into twin towers. They stood neatly, staring up at me, seemingly out of place with the atmosphere surrounding them.


A Pleasant Evening in November
I sat in the back of the cruiser. My mind was racing; my heart pounding. Unable to feel anything but ambiguity, I stared, with my head tilted back, at the ceiling of the car. I was caught between feeling sorry or festive. Then I lowered my eyes to what was going on outside. I drifted back to the hour before.

Downstairs I heard the familiar sound of the door slamming, as my dad left. I glanced at my clock which stood on the wicker bureau in my room. 11:41 P.M. Silently, I stood up and slowly opened my door. Listening, it sounded as if there was martial arts practice going on in my kitchen. I crept to the stairs where I tried to get a peek at what the hell my mom was doing.
Without even turning around she shouted “I know ya thea kid… I ain’t stupid.” However, she didn’t say it with anger; she spoke loudly with a matter-of-fact tone of voice. By the manner in which she said that sentence, I could tell what she was really saying. She was telling me she expected me to be sitting there. She was telling me that a damaged part of her mother instinct still existed.
In any case, I decided to quit fighting the curiosity and to go in the kitchen to see what had happened ten minutes before. As expected, there were papers all over the floor with past due amounts, the dog bowl had been flipped over with food everywhere, and this time even the glass on the china cabinet had been shattered.
“Mom… what happened?” I muttered with a hint of compassion in my voice.
“Y’know how ya fatha gets when he gets mad.” She responded nonchalantly.
“Well, where’d he go?”
“He’s a grown man. He’s fine. We’re fine. Don’t even worry about it.”
I watched her unbalanced frame, as she held herself up against the counter. She tried to remain untouched, but I could tell she was broken and miserable. We both stood there in silence, avoiding any eye contact. Regardless of the situation, we hadn’t had a moment like that in a while. The hostility was absent for a few brief moments.
Then, before I could think, the mood shifted 180 degrees. The brief moments that preceded, were only the calm before the storm. My mom stood up straight now and scrutinized me before opening the cabinet where a half empty bottle of SKYY lay. As she twisted cap I grabbed her arm.
“Mom, no. You aren’t drinking anymore. I’m putting you to bed.”
“Don’t you touch me. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.” She snarled at me.
Although she was skin and bones, I feared something about my mother. Especially when she was drunk. I didn’t want to test her, but I couldn’t stand to allow her to drink herself into another blackout.
I grabbed the bottle. As I did this, adrenaline pumped throughout my entire body. If I had put it back, she’d have taken it. If I had brought it with me to bed, I’d have slept with one eye open. But if I smashed it, it was gone.
I quickly ran outside, down the stairs and stood on the grass. I chucked the bottle into the middle of the street where it shattered. I knew at that point nothing about the rest of the night was going to be good.
As I walked into the house I carefully walked by my mom, not taking my eyes off of her. I walked up to my room and I shut the door. I could hear her footsteps on the stairs. The door swung open seconds later.
“Did you seriously just do that? LOOK AT ME. Did you?” She slurred.
I backed up against the wall farthest from my bedroom door. “Mom, stop. I am going to bed. Just leave me alone.”
She said nothing while she stood with her hands on her hips and her face wrinkled in anger before me. I repeated myself once again. She began to come towards me. I tried to counter her steps and leave the room but she closely guarded me like a defender.
I stopped and stood there looking every direction than at her with my arms crossed. She had me cornered.
Then, I began to lose it. “Mom. Get out of my room now. I’m not kidding.” I told her this as if it were my final warning.
Instead of leaving she taunted me. “I’m not goin’ anywhea. You wanna play dirty, kid. Huh? Throwin’ my shit? I ain’t goin’ no whea.”
I attempted to escape once again but this time she shoved me. Both hands pushed against my shoulders as I felt my back hit the wall. It had to have been a split second between that and what came next but it felt like a lifetime.

“This is 9-1-1… what is your emergency?”
I clutched the phone violently in my hand, and pressed it tightly against my ear. The dispatcher’s voice echoed in my head with the sound of it being light years away.
“What was my emergency?” I thought to myself.
“Hello? Is anybody there? What is your emergency?” The operators’ voice at the other end now demonstrated a fuse of emotions between aggravation and concern.
“You need to send somebody here. Now.”
“Ma’am, what’s your emerg-”
“My mom is drunk and I… I tried to walk away… She wouldn’t let me… Just send somebody here… Please.” I pleaded with the dispatcher.
After a few more questions in attempts to figure out what was going on, she said “stay calm, we’re sending someone right over.” Those words left me with the first feeling of safety I’d had since hearing the door slam just hours before.

Now, I sat with nothing but my thoughts. For some reason I found security in the thought of perhaps laying on the floor of a cell for the following twenty-four hours. I wondered what would come after that. I had underestimated the severity of the situation at the time. The only thing I knew for certain as the officer got in the drivers’ seat and pulled away, was that I would never live in that house again.