Breaking Free

A gun, oh shit, shit, shit.
I climb off of the bed quickly and flatten myself to the floor and slide myself underneath. I don't want my father to die or anything like that, I just want to be out of his abusive grasp.
What am I going to do?
"Let me in, I know she's in there," my father cries out.
Oh god.
"She's not here, go away," Jackson yells through the door.
Before I know what's happened the door is being slung open, I can see two sets of feet from my perch under the bed, I know one is Jackson's and the other is my father's.
"You took'er," my father slurs. Until now I didn't notice that he was drunk.
"I didn't take anyone," Jackson says, and honestly he didn't take me, I left on my own accord.
"She's here and I know it, I saw you with her," my dad says demanding and I see him move closer to Jackson.
I see the gun move from Jackson's side to where it's out of the line of my site.
"Leave," Jackson demands.
"Not until I take my daughter home," my dad yells.
"You're not taking anyone anywhere," Jackson says calmly.
I can hear the faint sounds of sirens coming up the street and I know it's the cops.
"The cops are on their way and you're going to get in a lot more trouble if you don't leave now," Jackson says, anger tinting his voice.
"You pulled a gun on me, who do you really think is going to get in trouble?" my dad asks with an uneasy laugh.
"You're in my home, the gun is in my name, for my protection, I suggest you leave before I have to use it,"
Oh wow, Jackson has a gun in his name, that's kind of scary but reassuring at the same time.
I can hear the fear in my dad's voice when the sirens top in front the house, but the malice and anger that drip from his words are more, "I'll be back and there is no way you can keep me from getting my daughter."
I see my dad's feet turn around and walk out of the bedroom.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
"It's okay for you to come out now," Jackson whispers.
I hesitate for a second before climbing out from under the bead.
I hear voices from downstairs, Debra, Jackson's dad and my dad, there are also two more voices that I don't recognize and I know that they must be the cops.
I can't make out what they're saying and I sit back on the bed and wait for someone to come get me.
Before long, a cop shows up at the bedroom door and politely starts asking questions.
"So, you're the man downstairs's daughter?" the cop asks.
"Yes," I answer quietly.
"Why is he looking for you? Did you runaway?"
"Technically, yes, I did," I answer honestly.
"I'm going to take you home then," the cop answers.
"You can't!" Jackson exclaims.
"I have to, it's the law, this young woman is underage and she has to be treated as a minor, running away is illegal,"
"I can't go back there,"
"Unless there is abuse or something in the home, in which case, your father says there wasn't," the cop says eying me suspiciously, "then I have to ask you to go come with me so your father can take you home."
"There is abuse," I mumble.
"What was that?" the officer asks.
"There is abuse!" I exclaim.
"Well, in that case, I'll have to contact Child Protective Services so there can be an investigation," the officer says.
This causes my stomach to drop and tears to well up in my eyes.
"Is there no way I can just stay here?" I ask.
"I'm sorry ma'am, but no, there isn't," the officer says.
I start crying and Jackson moves in and wraps me in a hug. "Don't worry, we'll get you home soon enough."
Jackson just referred to his home as mine and I can't help but think of how happy that makes me. Even though I've been here for less than a week, I do feel like it's my home.
"I don't want to go," I say with my face buried in Jackson's shoulder.
"I don't want you to go either," Jackson says sadly.
I grab my backpack and walk out of the bedroom with the officer.
Tears are streaming down my face and I'm useless to stop them.
When I walk by Debra, she hugs me tightly and assures me that I won't be in their custody for very long because she's going to get me out.
I climb into the back of the police car and my father is standing there watching me the entire time. He looks angry and drunk. I know that if I were to go home with him, he would beat me "within an inch of my life" like he like he has promised on many occasions.
I'm scared by the look he gives me, it's full of anger and hatred. He knows that he's been caught.
I ride with the cop in silence until we get to the police station.
Once inside he seats me at a desk where he questions me in depth about the abuse and things that went on in my home.
"Does your father ever hit you?" the officer asks.
"Yes," I answer honestly.
"Has he ever sexually abused you?"
"No."
"On occasions when your father has hit you, has he ever left any permanent marks, like scars?"
"No."
"Have there ever been any bruises?"
"Yes, I have one on my cheek right now that his covered up with makeup," I answer.
"I'm going to have to ask you to remove your makeup so I can take pictures." the officer says.
I'm starting to feel violated and I know that he's not meaning the questions in any way that I should feel that way, but I can't help it.
The officer leads me to a bathroom where I go in and wash the makeup off of my face, revealing the yellowed bruise on my cheekbone.
When I return, he leads me into a room where he snaps pictures of the bruise. This makes me extremely uncomfortable.
"Okay, well now that that is done, I'm going to have to inform Child Protective Services," he says.
"What's going to happen now?"
"You'll be placed in a temporary home," he informs me.
I sigh and have a seat on an uncomfortable, plastic-leather couch and wait.
It takes roughly an hour for someone to show up to question me again and I'm led to a home, full of smaller children. According the the child welfare worker, I will be placed here until a more permanent home can be found.
"How long with that take?" I ask.
"It can be a few days to a couple of months," she says.
"Why can't I just go back to my friends home?" I ask.
"Unless they are a certified foster family, there is nothing I can do," she says sounding sympathetic.
"But I know that they've adopted another abused child," I say. I mean this as Jackson, I know he's been abused even if he hasn't said it in as many words.
"Do you have their contact information?" the woman asks.
I rattle off the address to Jackson's house since I don't know the phone number and I wait while the woman makes a few phone calls. She goes to her car and pulls out a laptop where she starts punching information into the machine.
After about a half an hour she exits her car with a smile on her face and let's me know that the Maddox family has agreed to foster me.
I am overjoyed.