Second Chance

His fist collided with the side of my head.

I hit the wall hard; there was a sickening crack as my elbow made contact, followed by a whimper that I barely recognised as my own. I tumbled towards the floor, both arms flying out in an attempt to break the fall. He grabbed ahold of my now injured arm with an agility not to be expected of a middle-aged alcoholic, successfully preventing me from hitting the worn-out carpet. I would much have preferred the latter to have happened. For fear of enraging him further, I decided not to tell him this.

I began struggling at once, ignoring the pain that seared through my arm as I attempted to pull it out of his grasp. It wasn't the first time that I had been in this sort of situation, but I was desperately hoping that it would be the last. All that I needed to do was break free from him and make it ten feet to the front door. Of course, that was the hardest part.

He dragged me further away from my intended destination, down towards the back of the house. He'd done this enough times already for me to know that he was going to lock me in my room for however long he wanted to. With the window painted shut and the lock on the outside of the door, what had once been a sanctuary to me had fast learned to become a prison. After my mother had died so many years ago, the entire house had become a place to be avoided.

"Let me go!"

I kicked. I punched. And despite the fact that every blow landed successfully, I still found myself being hauled away from where I needed to be. I aimed a little higher, using my free hand to attack his face. With any luck it would be all the distraction I would need to get away. He grunted and began to swat at me. Because that was all I ever was to him - an annoyance, like some persistent fly that kept coming back for more. As far as I was concerned, it would take a lifetime of therapy and rehab to remind him that I was actually his daughter.

I got lucky, but you would never have guessed it with the way that he forcefully flung me aside. A quick glance at him told me that my nail had caught his eye with my latest strike, paining him enough to give me the time that I had so desperately needed. I bolted down the hall and yanked the front door open in one fluid movement, taking off into the street at top speed.

Being early May, the cold weather was just starting to set in and it was starting to rain more often. Thankfully, it wasn't raining just yet. It was some time past midnight, though I couldn't be sure of the exact hour, and the streets were thankfully free of cars and people alike. This meant that I could run without the need to check my surroundings so often - at least until I got closer to the main streets of the inner parts of Sydney city. I couldn't bring myself to turn around to check whether or not he was following me - it was far easier to believe (or rather, hope) that the voice screaming at me in the not-too-far distance was nothing but my imagination.

I rounded a corner and headed in the familiar direction of my best friend's house. It took me all of three seconds to remember that she was part of the reason that I was running in the first place; just yesterday she had attempted to kill herself - while I tried desperately to escape the house and come to her rescue - and a phone call from her blubbering mother just under an hour ago now had told me all that I had needed to know. I'd packed a bag and told my father I was leaving, leading to the drama that was now unfolding. Needless to say, I no longer had that bag and I no longer knew where I was going to go.

And in that split second that I hesitated, he caught up to me.

I knew it was him from the distinct scent of Winfields and Tooheys New that always surrounded him. Typical, right? Alcohol and cigarettes. It overcame me as I was grabbed from behind and it was all over the hand that he brought up to cover my mouth as the protesting started. My struggling started up again, though it was even less effective than before now that my hopes of finding a safe place to go had faded. This wasn't exactly the safest area around - even if I did manage to make a sound, my shrieking would go unanswered.

I was being tugged along again, this time down an alley between two dirty brick buildings. It lead out onto one of the busy main streets filled with night clubs and bars - the noise from both would be sufficient in eclipsing my cries. Knowing this was almost enough to make me give up right there. But if I was going to die here tonight, I was going to go down fighting.

I was thrown against a wall for the second time that night, this time hitting my head involuntarily against the old bricks. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and took to kicking at him again, yelling for help every second of the way. My efforts earned me a trip to the ground and a sharp kick to the ribs; I cried out again at this, and was rewarded with another boot to the stomach.

"You wanna scream, girl? Then scream!"

All thoughts of not going down without a fight were abandoned as I covered my head and made myself as small as possible in an attempt to protect myself. Standing at five foot, two inches, making myself small wasn't an issue - keeping myself protected was. My father worked for the local city council, and in typical fashion of such people he wore a pair of dusty old worker boots. They were heavy duty and he could put a lot of force behind each kick. It really wasn't a good combination.

The taunting went on - him telling me to scream, and kicking at me whenever I failed to do so. The kicks themselves came hard and fast, never giving me a chance to really catch my breath. I was waiting for the final blow. Waiting for a rib to break and puncture a lung. Waiting for him to start on my head. Waiting for something to end the torture. End the pain.

I should have known all along that things would have ended like this.

I cried out. I whimpered. But I wouldn't beg. No matter what he yelled at me or how many times he kicked me, I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing I begged him for mercy in my last moments. I closed my eyes.

And with one surprised grunt, the kicking stopped.

I forced my eyes open and looked back up at my father. I felt my heart skip a beat when I realised that he was no longer looming over me; my eyes travelled over to the wall that I had been acquainted with only moments before, where my father now stood pinned by a man several inches shorter than himself. Apparently "size doesn't mean a thing" was a truth after all.

"Run, damnit!"

I knew that it was indeed my chance, but I couldn't bring myself to stand. Even attempting to push myself into a sitting position was causing me more pain than I would have thought it could. I winced and let my head hit the ground again, deciding that waiting a few more moments couldn't possibly do me any harm. If this stranger was going to hurt me, I wasn't going to be able to outrun him, anyway.

His fist made contact with my father's nose, and I had no doubt that the impact made it break. It would have been enough to completely stop me in my tracks, but it didn't seem to phase the alcoholic at all. He shoved the man off and launched himself upon him, his rage against me channelled into his new attack. I wanted to cry with every hit that landed, knowing how much they must have hurt, but the reaction was dismissed when the stranger proved to be just as good. If not better.

"Why don't you pick on someone you're own size, huh?! Stop beating up on kids!"

His accent was foreign, but not so foreign that I couldn't place it to the United States. He wasn't from around here. That was obviously why he had stepped in to defend me. Bless him. I was going to need to thank him when I could find my voice.

"Fuck you, ya fuckin' Yank! She's my kid an' I'll do as I fuckin' please!"

He was quick to shut up when my saviour's fist made contact with his jaw; he was even quicker to take off running when he heard sirens fast approaching. Even I was within my mind enough to know that the sirens couldn't be for us. Nobody had called any emergency services. It was a Friday night - the cops were always just patrolling the city.

Now that the immediate danger had passed, I felt myself relax. My heart rate, which had increased dramatically during the fray, slowed back almost to its normal rate; every part of my body that had been hit began to ache as the adrenalin began to wear off. I shut my eyes again, willing myself not to cry.

"Are you alright?"

I felt rather than saw him kneel down beside me. I forced myself to open my eyes again and look at him. His own jade green orbs looked down on me, filled with more worry than I had seen in a long time. His eyes were either bruised or covered with make-up - in the dim street light, I wasn't able to tell which.

"I-I'm okay. Thank you..."

"Stay with me, alright? I'm gonna get help."

I saw him pull out his mobile phone before my eyes fluttered closed again. Now that I wasn't on the run or fighting for my life, the cold began to set in. I shivered. I wanted to run back home and crawl into my bed, where it was comfortable and warm. And out of the rain, I mentally added as I felt the first few drops on my face.

And with that thought to occupy me, I let my consciousness slip away.