just don’t

“You must not love your mother very much then.” These were the last words in a diatribe of foul stupidity. One that called into question the intelligence of two full grown women, several doctors, and touted the absolute genius of the speaker.

There was a haze in my vision and thrum in my ears. I lunged, driving my fist into his wobbly throat. I heard a crunch and wasn’t sure if it was my hand or his adams apple. He was twice my age and twice my age, but he could come nowhere near the size of my fury.

All the abuse he had heaped on my mother over the years came pouring out of me. I repeatedly slammed his head onto the floor where he fell, still clutching his throat. I could feel my husband’s hands trying to lift me away, trying to call my name, but I was screaming.

I was screaming.

The white haze pulled away from my eyes.

I could barely breathe, I was panting so hard.

I was pinned around the waist by my husband’s arm, held securely to his chest. My feet barely touched the floor.

My step-father stood intact before my disbelieving eyes.

He didn’t speak to me after that.

But he did sleep with his door locked.