Emily
There isa rapid knock on the door. I ease it open and gasp at the sight of David. His right arm is in a sling, bandages cover his right temple, and his shirt is covered in blood. I take a few steps forward and wrap my arms around him. He winces.
“What happened?” I ask him, although I know the answer.
“My dad happened.”
“What did he do?”
“He came home drunk and decided that I was an appropriate punching bag to take his anger out on.” He takes a shallow but audible breath. “He punched me in the gut, broke three of my ribs, slammed me into the doorframe—which fractured my arm in two places—and bashed my head into the floor once I fell.” He points to his bandages with his free arm.
“Who is it at this hour?” my mom yells from the top of the stairs.
“It’s David, Mom, and he’s hurt!”
My mother, Deidre, appears in the doorway in her pajamas. Her jaw drops and she doesn’t respond as she soaks in the situation on her doorstep.
“Oh my, David, come in, come in!” She takes a step to the side and ushers him inside, scanning him with her eyes. “Who did this to you?”
“My father,” he says solemnly and with a tinge of embarrassment.
“Oh, David! Well, you can’t go back there. Look at you!”
“I can’t put you and your husband in that position, Mrs. Maylor,” he says.
“Nonsense. Frank’s asleep upstairs, but he’d agree with me. You can stay in the spare bedroom. Also, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Deidre?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs.—I mean, Deidre.”
David turns to me, his eyes marbled with pain. I wrap him in my arms and feel his shoulders fall forward, as if he can finally let himself be weak for a moment.