Post by mswrite on Nov 5, 2005 14:02:50 GMT -8
Bree stared at the cards in her hand, forcing her mind to focus on them and only them. King, Queen, Jack, five, two, three. A good cribbage hand. She selected the two and the three for her kitty, and sat waiting. She stared across the worn table, through the yellow light cast by the bare bulb hanging above her head, at her ten-year-old-daughter, Ami, whose face was twisted in concentration as she studied her cards. Bree thought back to when she had first learned to play cribbage. She had been Ami’s age when her grandmother had brought out the deck of cards and spent hours teaching her the rules and skills of the game.
“Mom, is there any use in keeping aces?” Ami inquired.
“Yes. Good for pegging points. If I get to thirty, you could use an ace to get to thirty-one.”
Ami nodded seriously and studied her cards again. Bree glanced at the clock: 10:45 PM.
“Ami, you’ll have to go to bed after this round.”
“But the game isn’t over—“
“Your father will be home soon.” Bree explained. She watched with an aching heart as fear flashed across her daughter’s face. Quickly, Ami placed two cards in the kitty and told her mother, “You start.”
Bree laid down a five. “Five.” She said.
A look of glee filled Ami’s face, and she laid down a queen. “Fifteen for two!” she said triumphantly, moving one of her red pegs past her mother’s on the board.
Smiling back at Ami, Bree put down a queen. “Twenty-five for two.” She said, taking her two points. She watched her daughter’s face scrunch as she did the math in her head.
“Six or less.” Bree told her.
“Go.” Ami replied.
“Then I get the last card.” Bree answered. “You start.”
“Eight.”
“Eighteen.,” Bree challenged as she placed a Jack on the table.
“Twenty-five.” Ami’s eyes flashed, as if daring her mother to claim the last point. The same look, Bree thought with a shudder, that her husband often gave her as he threw her to the floor…
“Go.”
“One for the last card!”
“Ten.” Bree began.
“Nineteen,” Ami said.
“Next time, you don’t want to put down a card that could make a run, because if I had a Jack or an eight there would be a run and I would get three points.”
“Oh…” Ami replied, disappointed. “Do you have an eight or a Jack?”
“No. Twenty-nine.” She said, laying down her final card, a king. “And one point for the last card. You count first.”
Ami laid out her cards on the table and began counting her points. “I have…fifteen two, fifteen fo—“
“Quiet!” Bree interrupted with sudden, alarming ferocity. She thought she heard the grinding of the elevator moving towards the tenth floor. She glanced at the clock: 10:50. Too early. But…
From their apartment between the elevator and the stairwell, they could here everything and Bree heard distinctly the shatter of glass on the elevator floor. She cursed under her breath. “Ami! Go!” she commanded.
The little girl fled towards her room.
“No! To the stairwell. He’s been drinking.”
She saw her daughter’s face twist with fear and anger. Her throat choked.
“Mom…Come with me.” Ami pleaded. She stood in the doorway, looking small and frightened.
“Go!”
With one last look towards her mother, Ami fled the apartment and into the stairwell, where she crouched on the landing one floor below. She held her breath, trembling, trying to keep from crying. She heard the elevator grind to a stop on the tenth floor, heard the doors creak open. She heard her father’s heavy steps as he grumbled under his breath…
No sooner had Ami gone did Bree hear the elevator stop. She heard the key slide into the lock. Desperately she swept up the cards into the large kitchen garbage can. The door opened, and slammed shut behind her husband as he entered. He entered the yellow light of the kitchen and saw Bree, saw the cribbage board on the table.
“What the hell have you been up to?” her husband demanded, stepping toward her. She could smell the alcohol in his breath.
“Nothing.” She choked.
“Where’s Ami?”
“In bed.” Bree lied.
“Don’t lie to me, bitch. You kept her up late again, didn’t you?”
“No, Jack, I—“
“I said don’t lie to me!”
He stormed towards the girl’s room and flung the door open. In the light that spilled in from the hall, he could see that the small cot lay empty. Enraged, he turned to his wife.
“Where the hell is she?” he demanded, his eyes flashing.
“Not here.” Was all Bree could manage.
“She’s my daughter too.” He wrapped his fingers around her arm tightly, causing her to gasp in pain.
“How many times do I have to tell you, the little bitch should be in bed early? And you lied to me!” he roared.
“Jack—“
He flung her down to the floor, where she cowered in a pile of her daughter’s stuffed toys.
“Now stand up and tell me where she is.”
Bree froze.
“Stand UP!”
He bent down towards her, his eyes flaming. He grabbed her and threw her against the wall, then slapped her. She screamed, and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pain…so much pain.
From the stairwell, Ami heard a thump, a yell, and a scream, followed by more yelling, screaming, and crying. She closed her eyes and curled up in a small, tight ball, waiting out the storm.
It went on for longer than usual that night. For over a half an hour Ami cowered in the stairwell, crying silently, listening to the bangs and thumps and her mother’s screams of pain. She smelled marijuana, wafting from her neighbors’ open windows. She knew they were too stoned to care what was going on next door. Only two other apartments on her floor were inhabited, and she was too afraid of the inhabitants to ask them for help. A registered sex offender lived in the apartment directly below hers, and she heard him puffing on a cigarette and hacking. She thought she would rather that he find her than father.
Finally, there was silence. Then, the door opened. Ami whimpered. Her father began to descend the stairs. She curled as tight, as small as she could in the dark corner. He had nearly passed. He was too drunk on alcohol and violence to notice her. She would make it, she would be alright…
A foot flew from the darkness and kicked her in the face. Blood flowed freely down her face, pouring from her nose. Her head spun, and bright spots danced before her eyes. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She coughed out blood and gasped in air. Trembling, she looked up into her father’s eyes. The hate that filled them forced her to look away. He yanked her up and threw her against the stairs, and staggered menacingly toward her. “Run, before I kill you.” He ordered. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she sprinted up the stairs, but he did not follow.
The apartment door was swinging open in the wind, the key still in the lock. Slowly, Ami entered, fearing what she might find.
As tears swarmed her vision, she cried out. “Mom?” she whimpered. “Mommy?”
There she was. On the kitchen floor, in a pool of her own blood, whimpering. The cribbage board, broken in two, lay beside her, a painful remnant of their peaceful, mother-daughter evening. As the blood flowed thickly down her face, Ami curled up at Bree’s side. She lay there, waiting for her mother to speak. All she heard was her mother’s breathing.
It had been two hours when she heard footsteps up the stairwell. Another glass bottle dropped and shattered in the hall. The door opened, and her father entered the kitchen again.
Bree and Ami were found dead in their kitchen the next morning, mother and daughter, curled side by side. One on side of them lay the broken cribbage board that had been smashed over Bree’s head, on the other, the torn pieces of four playing cards: King, Queen, Jack, and five.
“Mom, is there any use in keeping aces?” Ami inquired.
“Yes. Good for pegging points. If I get to thirty, you could use an ace to get to thirty-one.”
Ami nodded seriously and studied her cards again. Bree glanced at the clock: 10:45 PM.
“Ami, you’ll have to go to bed after this round.”
“But the game isn’t over—“
“Your father will be home soon.” Bree explained. She watched with an aching heart as fear flashed across her daughter’s face. Quickly, Ami placed two cards in the kitty and told her mother, “You start.”
Bree laid down a five. “Five.” She said.
A look of glee filled Ami’s face, and she laid down a queen. “Fifteen for two!” she said triumphantly, moving one of her red pegs past her mother’s on the board.
Smiling back at Ami, Bree put down a queen. “Twenty-five for two.” She said, taking her two points. She watched her daughter’s face scrunch as she did the math in her head.
“Six or less.” Bree told her.
“Go.” Ami replied.
“Then I get the last card.” Bree answered. “You start.”
“Eight.”
“Eighteen.,” Bree challenged as she placed a Jack on the table.
“Twenty-five.” Ami’s eyes flashed, as if daring her mother to claim the last point. The same look, Bree thought with a shudder, that her husband often gave her as he threw her to the floor…
“Go.”
“One for the last card!”
“Ten.” Bree began.
“Nineteen,” Ami said.
“Next time, you don’t want to put down a card that could make a run, because if I had a Jack or an eight there would be a run and I would get three points.”
“Oh…” Ami replied, disappointed. “Do you have an eight or a Jack?”
“No. Twenty-nine.” She said, laying down her final card, a king. “And one point for the last card. You count first.”
Ami laid out her cards on the table and began counting her points. “I have…fifteen two, fifteen fo—“
“Quiet!” Bree interrupted with sudden, alarming ferocity. She thought she heard the grinding of the elevator moving towards the tenth floor. She glanced at the clock: 10:50. Too early. But…
From their apartment between the elevator and the stairwell, they could here everything and Bree heard distinctly the shatter of glass on the elevator floor. She cursed under her breath. “Ami! Go!” she commanded.
The little girl fled towards her room.
“No! To the stairwell. He’s been drinking.”
She saw her daughter’s face twist with fear and anger. Her throat choked.
“Mom…Come with me.” Ami pleaded. She stood in the doorway, looking small and frightened.
“Go!”
With one last look towards her mother, Ami fled the apartment and into the stairwell, where she crouched on the landing one floor below. She held her breath, trembling, trying to keep from crying. She heard the elevator grind to a stop on the tenth floor, heard the doors creak open. She heard her father’s heavy steps as he grumbled under his breath…
No sooner had Ami gone did Bree hear the elevator stop. She heard the key slide into the lock. Desperately she swept up the cards into the large kitchen garbage can. The door opened, and slammed shut behind her husband as he entered. He entered the yellow light of the kitchen and saw Bree, saw the cribbage board on the table.
“What the hell have you been up to?” her husband demanded, stepping toward her. She could smell the alcohol in his breath.
“Nothing.” She choked.
“Where’s Ami?”
“In bed.” Bree lied.
“Don’t lie to me, bitch. You kept her up late again, didn’t you?”
“No, Jack, I—“
“I said don’t lie to me!”
He stormed towards the girl’s room and flung the door open. In the light that spilled in from the hall, he could see that the small cot lay empty. Enraged, he turned to his wife.
“Where the hell is she?” he demanded, his eyes flashing.
“Not here.” Was all Bree could manage.
“She’s my daughter too.” He wrapped his fingers around her arm tightly, causing her to gasp in pain.
“How many times do I have to tell you, the little bitch should be in bed early? And you lied to me!” he roared.
“Jack—“
He flung her down to the floor, where she cowered in a pile of her daughter’s stuffed toys.
“Now stand up and tell me where she is.”
Bree froze.
“Stand UP!”
He bent down towards her, his eyes flaming. He grabbed her and threw her against the wall, then slapped her. She screamed, and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pain…so much pain.
From the stairwell, Ami heard a thump, a yell, and a scream, followed by more yelling, screaming, and crying. She closed her eyes and curled up in a small, tight ball, waiting out the storm.
It went on for longer than usual that night. For over a half an hour Ami cowered in the stairwell, crying silently, listening to the bangs and thumps and her mother’s screams of pain. She smelled marijuana, wafting from her neighbors’ open windows. She knew they were too stoned to care what was going on next door. Only two other apartments on her floor were inhabited, and she was too afraid of the inhabitants to ask them for help. A registered sex offender lived in the apartment directly below hers, and she heard him puffing on a cigarette and hacking. She thought she would rather that he find her than father.
Finally, there was silence. Then, the door opened. Ami whimpered. Her father began to descend the stairs. She curled as tight, as small as she could in the dark corner. He had nearly passed. He was too drunk on alcohol and violence to notice her. She would make it, she would be alright…
A foot flew from the darkness and kicked her in the face. Blood flowed freely down her face, pouring from her nose. Her head spun, and bright spots danced before her eyes. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She coughed out blood and gasped in air. Trembling, she looked up into her father’s eyes. The hate that filled them forced her to look away. He yanked her up and threw her against the stairs, and staggered menacingly toward her. “Run, before I kill you.” He ordered. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she sprinted up the stairs, but he did not follow.
The apartment door was swinging open in the wind, the key still in the lock. Slowly, Ami entered, fearing what she might find.
As tears swarmed her vision, she cried out. “Mom?” she whimpered. “Mommy?”
There she was. On the kitchen floor, in a pool of her own blood, whimpering. The cribbage board, broken in two, lay beside her, a painful remnant of their peaceful, mother-daughter evening. As the blood flowed thickly down her face, Ami curled up at Bree’s side. She lay there, waiting for her mother to speak. All she heard was her mother’s breathing.
It had been two hours when she heard footsteps up the stairwell. Another glass bottle dropped and shattered in the hall. The door opened, and her father entered the kitchen again.
Bree and Ami were found dead in their kitchen the next morning, mother and daughter, curled side by side. One on side of them lay the broken cribbage board that had been smashed over Bree’s head, on the other, the torn pieces of four playing cards: King, Queen, Jack, and five.
