But this time, I see the car door is open and the man is lying on the ground a few feet from the car in the middle of the street. He’s not moving. My brain fills in the gaps with lightning speed.
The glass of water falls from my hand, shattering on the ground. Shards of glass pelt my bare feet and legs, followed by cold water.
Ronnie. He’s here. Somewhere. He’s coming for us.
My phone is by my bed. I rush toward my room as fast as I can. The first step I take brings my foot down on a thick piece of glass and I slip backwards, falling hard and knocking the wind from my lungs.
At the same moment, the kitchen window shatters and a drunken, soaking wet Ronnie climbs through. Lightning flashes behind him, illuminating the rain that sprays through the window behind him. He clumsily uses the counter to slide down into the kitchen, boots crunching on broken glass. He holds a splintered wooden baseball bat in his hand. There’s a clump of hair wedged beneath one of the splinters.
My stomach turns over. Did he fucking kill the guy outside? If he would kill a stranger in cold blood, what would he do to us?
“This has been a long fucking time coming, bitch,” he growls.
I scoot back, wincing as glass digs into my palms. My foot is an explosion of heat and pain. A trail of slick blood stretches out behind me as I back away from him.
Ronnie’s voice is slurred, and I can tell from his movements that’s he’s drunk. “First I’ll break your legs so you can’t run. Then I’ll tell that boyfriend of yours he can have you back for a million dollars.” Ronnie laughs deeply and then pauses abruptly to cough something thick up. He spits on the floor.
“Mom,” I whisper. I try to shout, but my chest feels so tight I can’t push the sound out any louder. It’s like I’m in a dream. Everything feels stiff and foggy.
He’s stepping closer. Crunch. Crunch. The tip of the bat drags on the ground, paving a path through the shards of glass. I can’t take my eyes off the clump of dark hair. I expect him to swing as soon as he can reach me, and at first, I don’t think I could stop him if he did. I feel helpless.
It’s only when he falls to his knees and comes closer that the ability to fight rises up. If he thinks he’s going to put his fucking hands on me…
My head bumps into the cabinet. I run out of room to back up just as my hand comes down on a fist-sized piece of glass. I squeeze it, not caring how it digs into my skin.
“I’ve always wondered how you would tas--”
Ronnie’s eyes bulge. His hand comes up slowly as he tips to one side, mouth open and working silently. I’m still gripping the piece of glass that I jammed into his leg when he falls. I rip it free and scoot away as quickly as I can, gasping for breath. I can’t look away from the spot where blood gushes from him, quickly forming a pool beneath his leg. I drop the glass and shakily get to one foot. I cry out as I rip the piece of glass from the bottom of my foot.
My mom bursts into the room, probably drawn by my scream. “Ronnie!” She shouts.
I watch, feeling sick when I realize my mom is probably still going to go back to him. I hoped maybe he had finally pushed her beyond her limit, that she was ready to take control of her life again.
She moves toward him, carefully avoiding stepping on glass with her bare feet. She leans down and I think she’s about to kiss him, but she pulls her hand back and punches Ronnie in the mouth.
“You stay the fuck away from my daughter. And you stay the fuck away from me. We’re done.”
I stare in amazement as my mom comes toward me and helps me up, leading me from the kitchen. Once she helps settle me down on the couch, the pain of my injuries finally hits me. And it hits like a truck. My foot is a blaze of agony and my hand is throbbing with icy hot pain from where I gripped the glass to stab Ronnie. To stab Ronnie. God. Vivid images flash in my mind from the last few minutes.
Ronnie crawling through the window like some demon, backlit by lightning. His face as he knelt down to reach for me. The way the blood oozed from his leg. My mom choosing me over him. I let my head fall back against the couch. “We need to call someone,” I say after a few moments. I doubt Ronnie is going anywhere on his own with the gash in his leg, but we can’t exactly let him just lay bleeding in the kitchen bleeding out all night, either.