Danielle's Struggle: A Tale of Liberation.

Another intro, with credits to my good friend and proofreader, Brad.

   She had been in her room for ten minutes when she heard the familiar clink of glass of the granite countertop. She tried as hard as she could to block out the sound by fully focusing on the picture she was colouring: a pair of puppies running through a meadow under a rainbow. She liked puppies.

   She heard the freezer door open and close and she knew what that meant: his first drink was well under way. The lines of the puppies became blurred as her hands shook, and she dropped her crayon when she heard the sound of the glass on granite once more. Her breathing became heavy and desperate as she finally abandoned her desk and searched for something to better distract herself. People laughed on the TV and her stomach lurched.

For a moment she considered crawling into bed and pulling the covers over her head; maybe she would sleep soundly until morning, with no disturbance at all, when her mom would be home from work...Then she remembered what had happened the last time he'd found her in bed, and quickly changed her mind.

   She looked around at each of her toys lying haphazardly around the room and realized that the thought of trying to sit and play with anything made her feel sick; everything in the room reminded her of something that had happened in the past. Everything around her was another reminder that she wasn't a normal eight-year-old girl, and that she probably never could be again.

   Her eyes fell on her bedroom window and her heart leapt; suddenly distraction from the inevitable didn't seem to be the only solution anymore. What if she escaped? The bay window seemed so inviting. She heard another clink from the kitchen.

Her mind had been made up within seconds and she grabbed her Hello Kitty backpack, dumping its contents onto her bed; coloured pencils, note cards, and loose pieces of paper flew across the pink polka dotted comforter and a notebook fell on the floor, "Danielle Williams, Mrs. Hammon's 3rd Grade" staring up at her from the cover.

    Frantically, watching her bedroom door and straining her ears to hear every sound her father made from the living room and kitchen, she went to her dresser and began filling her bag with as much clothes as could fit. With some difficulty, she pulled the zipper closed and reached for the framed photograph on her bedside table and stuffed it into the front pocket of her backpack. She flung the straps over her shoulders and headed for her final break.

   As she climbed onto her bay, fumbling with the latches of the window, her foot collided with a small shelf and a porcelain jewelry box fell to the hardwood floor with a clatter. She gasped at the noise and turned her head, just in time to see her bedroom door slam open, rattling the bookcase at the end of her bed, the force of which sent one of her porcelain dolls crashing to the floor a few feet from the jewelry box.

   His form filled the whole of the doorway, his face twisted with anger. He roared, a furious, bellowing sound, and threw his glass against the wall. The glass shattered and the bitter smell of whiskey filled the room. She threw herself on the ground and scrambled, quickly as she could, under the bed.

    Her movements had been in vain; he grabbed her ankle before she was completely out of reach, pulling her violently toward him. Tears filled her eyes as she kicked and thrashed in an attempt to free herself from his grasp.

   She felt something in her leg pop and she let out a cry of pain. She barely had time to dwell on it, however; he quickly grabbed her pony tail and hit her hard across the face. Tears streamed down her cheeks and, in her mind, she scolded herself; she knew better than to make so much noise.

    "What," she could hear the anger in his voice as her spoke, slowly and menacingly, "in the HELL do you think you're doing?"

     "Nothing," she replied quietly, too frightened to say much. "Daddy, I swear I-"

His palm struck her cheek again and it was as if his voice dripped poison with each word he spoke. "Don't you lie to me, you little b***h." He grabbed her hair again, pulling her close to him; so close she could feel her eyes burning from the strength of the whiskey on his breath.

    She whimpered, desperately trying to pull herself from his grasp, but his fingers twisted tighter in her hair and she winced as she felt a clump pulled from her scalp by his wedding ring.

   "Daddy, please, you're hurting me!" It was barely audible, but it was enough to set him off again. Blood trickled, warm and sticky, into her mouth as he struck her again.

   "You were trying to leave," he growled. She closed her eyes and braced herself for another blow. Instead, he muttered incoherently to himself, still holding her by the hair, and closed her eyes once more, trying even harder to release herself from his grip.

   "Please-"

   "Just-shut-your-f*****g-mouth," she heard him breathe through gritted teeth and she closed her eyes even tighter when she heard the metallic clank of his hands fumbling with his belt buckle.

   She struggled harder to pull herself free and cried out again. He moved his hand from her hair to her shoulder and she could feel her skin bruising under his grasp. He shook her, hard, both hands on her shoulders, slamming her head against the floor. He spoke quietly but with no less brutality.

   "You think you're so smart, don't you? Well, you're not. You're stupid. You're a stupid f*****g kid. And do you know how we deal with stupid f*****g kids?"

She pressed her lips together in a hard line and shook her head, tears pouring down her face. Hands still on her shoulders, he pushed her small, frail body to the floor and hovered over her, sweat dripping from his browline and onto her forehead.

   "Stupid f*****g kids," he panted, "have to be taught a lesson." He pinned her down between his knees as his hands moved from her shoulders back to his belt. She tried her best to free herself, but was next to immobile under his weight. She flailed her arms desperately and cried out for him to stop.

   She pushed his legs with all her strength as he unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down past his hips. She screamed, begging him to stop, but was cut short when the back of his right hand collided with her face again.

   Her vision went completely red and small stars popped into view. Blood dripped into her hair, warming its path on her chin. She turned her head and wept, hard and uncontrollably, as she felt his hands on her hips, jerking her pajama pants down.

    Squeezing her eyes shut as tightly as she could, she begged silently for it to all just be over.

    Please God, she thought, Please just let this be done, be over. Let him die, let him die, just please make it stop, anything. Please.

   And suddenly, it stopped.

   She couldn't feel his hands on her, his knees relaxed their grip on her hips, and she opened one eye slowly to look at him. He wore a blank expression, as though logical thought had escaped him, and the anger was slowly fading from his eyes. He swayed on the spot where he balanced on his knees.

   She seized the opportunity to slide herself out from under him, and pressed herself against the wall just in time to see him fall, face-first onto the floor at her feet.

   It took her what felt like forever to process the scene, and even longer to register her mother's form standing before her, right behind where her father had just been upright, and aluminum baseball bat held in her hands.

   They stared at each other in shocked silence for a few moments, tears still streaming down her cheeks and her mother's breath heavy and ragged.

    In an instant she was being scooped up into her mother's arms; it was almost impossible to tell who was crying harder...