Injured Sparrow

Megan paused; it was a beautiful autumn day, warm without being too hot, under a flawless blue sky. Ironic however, because Megan was too apprehensive, preoccupied with her relentless concerns to enjoy the allure.  Impulsively, she drove Kendra to Snappy Burgers (an out-the-way) Drive-thru for a kid's meal and some playtime at the adjacent city park because Megan didn't want the child to sense her agitation. 

 At the park, Meg proceeded to set out their lunch at the picnic table. The two ate their meals in silence, Meg barely pecking at her own. Her gaze swept absently over the antiquated playground, which hosted all the nostalgic equipment such as the coil-spring hobby horses as well as other spring-loaded animal figures. There was a large metal slide next to the steel-framed swing-set.  She met up with Ruth and Kendra every week or two for their 'clandestine' lunch dates. Ruth kept these get-togethers secret from Jarrett so she wouldn't set him off. Meg should have been able to see her sister and niece unfettered, but NO, Jarrett had to exert his control! What a Bastard!

After the two finished their lunches, Kendra ran over to the swing-set. Looking at Kendra, Meg was reminded how much she resembled Ruth as a child.  As Megan continued to watch Kendra play, she recalled her own miserable youth with Ruth.  Her mind was suddenly flooded with visual images, in effect, forcing her to relive the experiences of her past. A wave of exacerbation along with sadness engulfed her as she remembered the 'oh so familiar patterns' of their childhood.  

Oh God, the impenetrable silence of that house! It was like entering a soundless cavity or perhaps a black-hole, where any echo of humanity was siphoned out into vacuity. Certainly unbearable, as was the persistent tension that hovered in the air, as a tangible, dark energy.  Her family lived in the shadows of the unspoken realities of their existences. 

Their mother speaking softly in her ever-hushed tone, always shushing Ruth and me.  To unwittingly speak boisterously was immediately chastised and deemed forbidden. Any unpredicted noise triggered panic, which was hastily censored.  We would all tiptoe around the house, walking on eggshells, trying not to upset the precarious balance.  Our 'practiced' routine was such an useless gesture in avoiding the inevitable eruption of HIS anger, for soon enough, the escalating pressure would reach the boiling point. Then Dad would explode!

Some imperceptible cue would signal the start of the impending STORM! Mom would hastily send us girls off to our bedroom. We would carefully execute our quiet escape with skilled precision, terrified of the looming thunder. Once the door was closed, a tangible aura of fear and uncertainty seemed to encapsulate both Ruth and me. It settled in the thickness of the air as we huddled in the corner of our room, praying for quick relief.  

The subtle smell of fear suffused the enclosed space as the symphony of remote sounds would ensue and hold rapt our attention.  This strident clamor would steadily increase in frequency and duration until the piercing pandemonium reached its' inescapable crest. It would begin with harsh voices progressively rising to yells until shouting or screams could be heard.  The resounding noises of banging furniture and breaking objects launched.  Next, the timbre of physical blows along with the whimpers, cries, and then the despondent moans of my Mom were heeded by us girls, as she was beaten, left battered, and bruised. While in stiff immobility, both Ruth and myself would listen to the resulting altercation, to its completion, in the outlying room within our own dreadful silence. Even the sound of our own heavy and alarmed breathing was barely audible in the stillness of our room.

In the final crescendo, Dad would storm out of the house! The report, along with the resultant rattle of the slammed door, reverberated with his enraged exit. As a child, Megan had often agonized about what would happen if he chose not to leave at that juncture.  Eventually, after Dad left, she and Ruth would hesitantly creep out of our room.  Only to face the withdrawn silence of our mother with her 'tacit' bruises and lacerations. And as an unwritten rule, we dared not speak of these 'unmentionable' injuries.  To speak about the obvious would inadvertently wound Mom's false pride and thus alternatively, incur my mother's fury.  Megan, herself, was often tempted to incite Mom's temper.  At least then, she could be ensured that her mother was alive behind that blank shell. 

Megan was left feeling sick to her stomach as she watched Mom pretend that nothing had happened. That nothing was wrong! Honestly, did Mom think that we didn't know precisely what was going on?  When Mom wasn't succumbing to the abuse, she mechanically went about her household duties and routines with a vacant expression on her face, perfunctorily responding to any external stimulus.   Her mother behaved like an automaton, scarcely allowing any human emotion to surface beyond the facade. 

At times, Megan felt as if she was the 'CRAZY' one because her family had acted as if everything was quite normal in their home. That it was completely natural for a family to behave in such a way! But even as a child, Megan KNEW something wasn't quite right about this situation. Then, Megan couldn't exactly remember when the pity for her mother turned into absolute resentment. Her bitterness towards her mother surmounted her harsh feelings in respect to her father.

Shaking her head, Megan couldn't believe Ruth allowed herself to fall in the same type of situation with Jarrett. When they were kids, Ruth was the brave one. The strong one! In times that either Ruth or herself were the objects of their Dad's fury.  Ruth was always stepping up, trying to place herself between Megan and their father's wrath, taking the punishments herself.  Often, Ruth would preemptively steer me away from possible trouble. She seemed to intuitively know what would set their father off and carefully avoided confrontations.  Ruth was always so matter of fact and deceptively calm when faced with any direct crisis.

Then came that fatal night, it was dark and wet outside.  Mom and Dad were fighting again, this time in the car; their voices were getting gradually louder. Both Ruth and myself were quietly cringing, trying to make ourselves small in the backseat; while pretending not to listen to their heated dispute.   Dad reached over to grab Mom by the front of her shirt and he lost control of the car on the slick, wet road.  Then, everything seemed to move in slow motion as we flew over the embankment and slammed into the tree. 

Meg tightly clamped her arms, beginning to rock, she took several deep breaths, but it was impossible to hold back the tide, forcing her to relive those last horrendous moments.  Just ride this out Meg, she whispered to herself, it will be okay. Oh, God! The sounds of bending and twisting metal, the splintering wood, and the breaking glass of the windshield, the repeated sounds of cracking and snapping as branches hit the roof and the sides of the car. The thumping noise of body parts shifting and hitting down after being hurtled about. All then seemed to go still, silent after the chaotic noise of the past moments. First, Meg saw her father, his head drooped forward, partially over the right side of the dash. The shattered windshield interlaced with red rivets and the grisly dark pools of blood -the sickly-sweet coppery smell of it seemed to cloth the air. It was as if she could even taste the blood. Then, she saw her mother, her neck bent backward, so her head hung down between the two seats, her hair was a bloody, tangled mess, and the glassy eyes stared nowhere. Meg’s young hand reached out to touch the waxen skin of her mother’s face. 

Meg shook violently, the sweat running down her back and torso, she gulped deep breaths, willing herself to move beyond this recurring nightmare. Each time it was like she was right back in that car again. The verdict: my father and mother died on impact.  Ruth and myself received relatively minor injuries and are orphaned when I had just turned nine and Ruth was eleven.     

Vigorously shaking her head as she returned from her memories; Megan gathered the used wrappers from lunch and threw them in the trash bin.  She called out to Kendra that they have five minutes until they have to leave.