Lost in Pages

"You're a piece of shit!" I heard my father yell. "Get the hell off of me."

"You're forty-two, Dean. Where are you going in life?"

"To the liquor store," he slurred. "Throw me the keys."

"You're piss drunk! There ain't no way," my mother mumbled.

"Throw me the fucking keys!" he roared.

After that, there weren't anymore voices. There wasn't any yelling or bickering. I could only hear the two of them fighting each other. My dad fighting for the keys and my mom fighting for my dad's safety and possibly someone else's safety if he got his way. I could feel the wall shake against the small of my back as they rammed each other into the walls.

I crawled under the blankets and curled into a tight ball. I threw my hands over my ears in the process, trying to block out the many thuds I heard going on downstairs. This seemed to turn into routine six years ago when I was ten years old. My dad had lost his job and when him and mom would fight, he'd go to the bar with his buddies and come home wasted and fight with my mom even more. It's pointless, but he's always too drunk to realize that. Hardly ever is he sober anymore.

A loud thud shuddered through the walls. I squeezed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth. Tears began to spill out of my eyes as fight grew worse. I wanted to go down there, but I was afraid I'd get put in the middle of it. Selfish.

Suddenly I heard a loud crash like a glass object being smashed against something. I bolted up and listened for a few seconds longer. "My dead grandmother gave me that vase, you bastard!" my mom sceamed.

I let out a sigh of relief as I realized my mom was okay and settled on the bed once again, my back against the wall. The yelling and fighting only continued. I rested the back of my head against the wall and stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to finally be over. I closed my eyes and prayed that my dad would pass out before the fight lead to someone getting seriously injured.

I knew in my heart that I should go down there and attempt to break up the fight, but what if I only made it worse? What if their fight was just simmering down and I went in there and lit it back up? I wouldn't be able to forgive myself.

After another ten minutes, the yelling and screaming still hadn't come to a halt. I grabbed a book from my nightstand and continued reading from where I had left off. Once I got into it, I was lost in a different world. Only a world that existed when I had my nose buried into a book. No matter what the book, good or bad, my brain and my imagination floated through that world. It was my second home; a home that made me happy. It was peaceful. I finished the last page and set the book down, satisfied.

I noticed something odd right then. It was a lot different than when I first started reading my book. It was...quiet. The yelling had stopped. I looked over at my alarm clock to check the time. 3:37 a.m.

I stood up and went downstairs to make sure my parents were okay. There was a pile of broken glass in the far left corner of the living room from where my dad had broken my mom's vase. My dad was passed out on the couch covered up with a blanket. Bottles of a variety of alcoholic beverages were scattered across the coffee table. In the kitchen, my mom was sitting at the table with her head in her hands. I ran over to her and she took me in her arms. I was shaking.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. We both began to weep.