The fans were both on their highest setting. I couldn’t hear a thing with them blowing on me. I was still hot, and with the stench of manure, it took forever to fall asleep. An hour, maybe longer. But I was exhausted from the long run earlier in the day and from the anxiety derived from worrying about my mother, and I eventually did fall asleep. It was deep and dream-filled. I don’t think I woke once.

He came home late, or rather, early, considering it was dawn—sometime before six in the morning. He was blackout drunk and my mother had fallen asleep on the couch with the television on. He woke her by dousing her with a glass of cold water, and I can only assume the fight was on from there. If they yelled at each other, I didn’t hear it, not then anyhow; nor do I know what was said or for how long they argued. But I do know that the fight escalated quickly when my father reached into the dining room china cabinet to retrieve a solid brass elephant statuette that must have weighed five pounds, and he hurled it across the room at my mother. He missed and instead shattered the window behind her. My eyes snapped open, but I stayed in bed because at first I thought I’d dreamt the loud noise. I strained to listen, faint hints of dawn breaking beyond my bedroom window. Both fans were still running, but aside from their incessant hum, the house was completely silent. It was silent because my father had retreated into the bedroom to get his gun while my mother dialed 911. It was something she had never done before despite the countless fights they had endured over the years. She somehow knew that this one was different, and she must have been scared. Very scared. And when my father returned with the gun in his hand, my mother screamed, loud and piercing, a scream that swept up and down my body like a flame. It was then that I threw the covers aside and leapt out of bed.

“You killed me first, Darla! You’re a fucking whore and I hope you rot in hell!” he yelled as I opened my bedroom door.