Sound is the enemy

Tiny ​hands ​grip ​the ​corner ​of ​the ​wall. ​Knees ​slump ​against ​the ​wall, ​breath ​comes ​out ​in ​short ​bursts,
bouncing ​off ​of ​the ​wall ​and ​hitting ​me ​in ​the ​face. ​Little ​whimpers ​are ​held ​back ​in ​fear ​of ​him ​hearing,
and ​coming ​up ​the ​stairs. ​Don’t ​look. ​Don’t. ​Look. ​Ears ​are ​stretched ​out ​wide ​like ​funnels, ​hoping ​that
sound ​will ​pour ​in ​like ​water. ​I ​didn’t ​see ​them ​sizing ​the ​other ​up, ​I ​didn’t ​see ​them ​fighting, ​I ​didn’t ​see
him ​stand ​up, ​I ​didn’t ​see ​him ​grab ​her, ​and ​I ​didn’t ​see ​him ​throw ​her ​down. ​But ​I ​heard ​the ​thud, ​I
heard ​her ​yell, ​and ​I ​heard ​the ​scream ​involuntarily ​rip ​out ​of ​my ​throat ​at ​the ​last ​minute.

Eyes ​locked ​on ​the ​television. ​Hand ​reaching ​to ​turn ​the ​volume ​up. ​Yelling ​keeps ​getting ​louder, ​words
get ​more ​violent, ​heart ​beats ​faster. ​A ​cry ​of ​pain ​and ​sadness ​fills ​the ​air ​unexpectedly. ​Feet ​force ​me
into ​the ​small ​kitchen, ​hands ​wrap ​around ​my ​tiny ​shoulders ​and ​pull ​me ​flush ​against ​warm ​skin. ​Face
to ​face, ​at ​a ​head, ​on ​the ​edge, ​confrontation. ​Eyes ​can’t ​look ​away, ​world ​won’t ​go ​on ​mute, ​tears
cascade ​and ​create ​wide ​and ​vast ​oceans ​at ​the ​bottoms ​of ​little ​feet. ​Nine ​years ​old, ​watching ​the ​knife
stand ​against ​his ​skin, ​screams ​and ​sobs ​fill ​the ​parentless ​house, ​as ​I ​beg ​to ​not ​have ​to ​call ​that ​dreaded
three ​digit ​number. ​Loud ​clatter ​of ​cutlery ​against ​counter, ​feet ​on ​floor, ​and ​door ​hitting ​door ​frame.

I ​had ​never ​seen ​two ​lions ​facing ​off ​before, ​but ​I ​think ​it ​would’ve ​looked ​like ​that. ​Clenched ​fists,
grabbing ​body ​parts, ​struggle. ​The ​sounds ​of ​struggling ​as ​clear ​as ​day ​even ​now. ​Struggling ​to ​stay ​on
their ​feet, ​struggling ​to ​take ​the ​other ​down, ​my ​struggling ​breaths. ​I ​still ​don’t ​know ​why ​I ​decided ​to
stay ​down ​and ​watch, ​why ​I ​didn’t ​just ​go ​upstairs ​and ​plug ​my ​ears. ​Face ​twisted ​in ​rage ​and
monstrosity, ​as ​I ​try ​to ​tell ​him ​to ​stop, ​to ​let ​it ​go. ​Throat ​closes ​up, ​head ​goes ​between ​knees, ​eyes ​are
shut. ​Can’t ​breathe, ​can’t ​see, ​can’t ​think, ​can’t ​stop ​them. ​Her ​shaking ​voice ​fills ​my ​ears ​and ​the
screaming ​stops. ​She ​gets ​me ​to ​breathe ​again, ​and ​he’s ​just ​watching ​us. ​I ​remember ​requesting
seperation ​and ​the ​desire ​to ​make ​that ​call. ​I ​almost ​did, ​but ​she ​stopped ​me.

Going ​into ​war ​when ​you’re ​nine ​and ​ten ​is ​horrible ​and ​something ​that ​people ​work ​very ​hard ​to
prevent, ​but ​what ​they ​didn’t ​know ​was ​that ​they ​were ​sending ​me ​into ​war ​whenever ​I ​walked ​through
that ​door. ​I ​wanted ​to ​shut ​my ​eyes, ​and ​sometimes ​I ​did. ​Sometimes ​I ​would ​even ​take ​my ​glasses ​off ​so
as ​to ​not ​have ​to ​see ​it. ​But ​I ​would ​always ​hear ​them, ​the ​screaming, ​the ​thuds ​of ​body ​on ​floor, ​the ​yells
of ​pain ​and ​anger. ​Unfortunately ​I ​could ​never ​take ​off ​my ​ears.