Broken

Startled from a fitful doze wherein she had been having nightmares of her violent ex husband, Martha Thompson sprang up in bed, heart pounding. A bang. She had heard a bang downstairs. Tossing back the covers she went to the window, drawing back the curtain with a shaking hand. The only car in the driveway was her own old Dodge, but Bart could have parked down the block. A high wind was blowing and rain pelted the window. A flash of lightning lit up the sky illuminating a face in the glass. Martha screeched, jumping back a step before she realized it was her own streaked reflection. “Crash!” Breaking glass. Downstairs. It had to be Bart. Somehow he had found them.

She was certain it was Bart. Her ex had sworn he would come for them if she ever ran out 0n him. Oh dear Gods! Frank! Her son was asleep in the other room! What if Bart went in there? Frantically she searched, her eyes darting around the room. Rather than a place to hide she needed a weapon with which to defend herself and her son. Her ex husband thought of them as property rather than family and wouldn’t hesitate to resort to violence. Martha bore the scars to prove it. Unfortunately, so did her son.

Stepping back from the window, Martha frantically darted to the nightstand and yanked open the drawer. Grabbing her nine millimeter she fumbled around for the magazine. Where was it? Where the hell is the magazine? Crap! Yanking out a pile of papers, she dropped it unheedingly on the floor where they scattered. Thank God! The magazine! Snatching it from the drawer she fumbled it into the opening on the bottom of the grip and jacked a bullet into the chamber.

“Creak…” Martha knew that sound. It was the second stair down which was slightly loose. Fumbling off the safety of her pistol she darted to her bedroom door. Placing an ear against the wood she listened. Her own rapidly beating pulse roared in her ears. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her rapid breathing enough to hear. Footsteps! Yes, there were footsteps on the stairs. “Snnkkkttt!” Martha heard the metallic scrape of a blade springing forth.

Gripping the doorknob in a clammy palm, Martha slowly turned it. Shoving the door open she jumped into the hallway, pistol quakingly held in front of here. There! On the stairs! A man! In the dark she couldn’t be certain. The shadowy figure turned towards her. “Stop! Stop or so help me I’ll shoot!” Martha’s finger tightened infinitesimally on the trigger.

“Mom! It’s me!”

“Frank?! Oh thank God.” Tension ebbing somewhat, Martha lowered the pistol to her side.

“I heard a crash downstairs.” Her son came up to her, pocketing his knife.

“Me too,” Martha whispered. “We need to check.”

Together the frightened mother and her fourteen year old son crept down the stairs. Seeing the broken glass under the living room window Martha walked that way. There was a broken branch on the carpet amidst a strewn pile of glass. A crash of thunder sounded, booming through the house as another flash of lightning was reflected in a thousand shards of shattered window pane.

“It was just the storm Mom. Dad’s not here.” Frank, eyes roaming the room, let out the pent up breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

Martha shivered. “You get a piece of cardboard and the duct tape to cover this while I check around to be certain.” She gave her son a quick hug. If anything happened to Frank she wouldn’t be able to survive. He was the main reason she had finally gotten up the courage to run. To leave the abusive redneck she had married. It didn’t matter that the wedding was mostly due to her teen pregnancy. From the moment she had first held the squalling red-faced bundle of infant boy she had known she would willingly die for her son.

For almost fifteen years Martha had cowered under Frank’s heaped verbal abuse. Enduring his incessant insults. But ever since he lost his job at the garage he had taken to drinking heavily. Then came the hitting. Bart would stumble in, drunk as a damn skunk, and immediately find some reason to lay into her. The first time he had struck her because his dinner wasn’t warm and waiting for him - despite it being four hours past dinner time - he had given her a black eye. He had blubbered apologetically, swearing he was sorry. Swearing it would never happen again. Three days later he had pummeled her because the dishes weren’t done. She had told the cops, called by the neighbors, that she fell down the stairs. The next time it happened, Frank had stepped between them. Her beautiful son had been left with stripes across his back and buttocks from Bart’s belt and a cut under his eye from the buckle. When Bart headed out for the bar the next evening, Martha had dug out the shoebox in the back of the closet where she had squirreled away three hundred dollars over the past few months. Packing her son and some belongings in her old Dodge, she took off.

It had been eight months now. She had a job as a waitress at a Dennys and the only person who knew where she was at was her sister Valerie. Bart couldn’t know where she was. Yet, still, she slept fitfully, startling awake at every little noise in the old house her boss had rented her cheap.

Checking the rest of the house room by room, Martha didn’t find anything else out of place. It had just been the storm throwing a branch through the window. Slowly, her nervousness ebbed away, the tension bleeding from her body.

Fifteen minutes later, after ensuring Frank was safely ensconced in his own bed, Martha climbed back under the covers. The pistol was tucked once more in the drawer of the nightstand. As the stress slowly eased, Martha slipped finally into sleep.

***********

Three houses down, in the beat up sedan parked by a vacant lot, Bart Thompson looked at his watch. Two a.m. Ignoring the blanket covered body of his sister-in-law in the back seat, he took a swig from his bottle of Jack and retrieved his pistol from his lap. Climbing out of the car he approached the house where that disloyal bitch was hiding with his son.