The Last Time He Raised His Hand

My father was standing outside with a friend from the neighborhood when he saw the youngest of his daughters step out of my older cousin's car—a cousin everyone knew didn't have a driver's license. I was coming back from a trip to her house in another county, my travel bag still on my back. I could tell from his hurried steps that he was going to tell my mother everything, and that she was going to give me a serious beating. "Dad, wait, I can explain." "Walk." "But Dad—" "I'm going to kill you today." My father had never laid a hand on me. When it came to me, my mother did the dirty work. He just yelled, loud enough to scare me. I was his favorite child, his baby girl, the one who calmed him down when he was violent with the others. He grabbed my arm, pulled me into the building, and pressed the elevator button. The doors had barely opened when he dragged me inside. He waited for them to close. Then he slapped me. Then again. And again. I tried to dodge, but he was too strong, too fast. My cheeks were on fire The doors opened on our floor, and I heard him undoing his belt. He was ready to keep beating me, but in his bedroom. While he fumbled with his belt in one hand and searched for his keys with the other, he let go of me, throwing me a look that forbade me to move. In two seconds, I saw the rest of my night, and probably of my life, under his blows. There was no way I was going to be his victim. Oh, no. I turned my head and saw the emergency exit. Courage took hold of me, and I ran. I took the stairs four at a time. I could hear my father screaming my name. No, I wasn't coming back. Not before I called my homeroom teacher to warn her what was about to happen to me and to my sister. Because make no mistake: my father was perfectly capable of beating several of his children at once, and he'd even include his wife. A few floors down, I stopped and saw the elevator going down. He thought he'd find me downstairs. I was going to get beaten tonight, that was certain. But not without a fight. My head was pounding, my ears most of all, his slaps had been so hard. How had my mother and my sister put up with this for years, sometimes days in a row, sometimes several times in the same day? I had to think. He was in a black rage. My life was in danger.