Writing prompt: Meditate and then write the first thing that comes into your mind.

She crept into my room last night, her bare feet making only the slightest sound on the wood floor. As she approached the bed, I lifted the covers up for her like I did every time, and she slid under them, curling up against me. Even in the darkness I could see the puffiness of her lip and eye, and I could only imagine what other marks marred her normally pale and finely formed features.

I pulled her toward me even closer, and she made the faintest cry of pain.

“Shh,” I soothed. “It’s okay now. I’ve got you.”

“Okay,” she sniffled back and started to cry.

I could feel the hot teardrops falling on my neck and arms, and I cradled her head against my chest. Her sobs poured out in ragged breaths, and I continued to make reassuring noises, letting her release all her fear and pain as I held her. Finally, she fell silent and asleep.

I lay there thinking. This was not the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last. Unless I stopped it. Me. All of 4’10” and 90 pounds soaking wet, but with the fury of a trapped lion. This had gone on for too long, and I could no longer justify cowering behind my own fear.

I slipped out of bed and grabbed the baseball bat in the corner. As I opened the door, light spilled into the room and on the sleeping form within.

“This is for you, Mom,” I whispered. “No more pain.”

Heaving the bat, I went out to confront the monster who was my father.

(c) 2017 Miriam Ruff All Rights Reserved