Laufer 1

Rebecca Laufer

David Barrick

WRI 2211G

March 28, 2015

Crossing the Line

In... out. In... out. The state shock that had attacked my body ten minutes earlier had

left me staggering; I was forced to focus the minimal energy that I had left on maintaining a

steady breath and preventing hyperventilation.

I had yet to close the front door behind me, and as I turned to do so my eyes flashed

to my husband sitting in the car. He smiled and gestured for me to continue into the house,

and for half a second his loose blonde curls distracted me from my incredible unease.

Although I could not return his look of optimism, I shut the door and turned again to face

my childhood home.

My heavy breath continued. With closed eyes I imagined a set of healthy, pink

lungs, slowly expanding... and slowly contracting. In... out. In... out. Memory allowed me

to take sixteen blind steps through the foyer and past the living room. I could picture the

green plaid couch with the tear in its left arm, and the rickety rocking chair that my mother

had treasured. I remembered the sound of clinking ice in her tumbler and the cracking of

the chair as she rocked back and forth for hours, her eyes closed just as mine were now.

Two more steps and I was past the powder room, and then a turn to the left. I'd

made that walk so many times before - sixteen, two, turn - as quickly as my little feet would

go, eyes open but unseeing so as to deny the presence of the man I knew would be lingering

somewhere around me.

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I opened my eyes to stare at the wooden bedroom door. I knew no one was behind it

but felt compelled to knock. My shaking knuckles rapt the door, knock-knock, and my

breath was stolen again. In out, in out, in out, I closed my eyes once more to focus myself

and picture those lungs. With determined force despite my fear I grabbed the doorknob and

stepped into the room. Three steps in, left turn, two steps, and down.

I sat on the tiny twin bed, on top of the worn comforter spotted with faded pink

ballerinas. I forced my eyes open again; the yellow-white walls around me were bare and

restrictive, as if I were in solitary confinement. A simple pine dressing table that didnt

match the bed sat across the room, and an off-white bed sheet shielded the mirror above it.

It was the same sheet I had put there thirty years prior.

I laid down on the bed and gazed up at the ceiling. My chest was tight but my

breathing had calmed; the air around me felt hot and soupy despite the chilly mid-January

morning. The eerie familiarity of the soft flannelette beneath my hands caused a flood of

memories that ambushed me in a painful overtaking. My eyes projected memories like a

roll of film onto the blank screen above me.

I remembered the ten-year-old me lying stiff in that same small bed. Night after

night I laid there, eyes wide with shock and no part of me moving, as if I could block out

what had happened by denying any connection to my body. I remembered cursing my body

for betraying me, my weakling limbs never being strong enough to fight back. I

remembered that menacing double knock on my door, a knock that to most would mean,

Can I please come in? but to me meant so much more

Ready or not, here I come.

Dont bother hiding baby, Ill find you.

Dont scream honey, dont cry. Mummyll be mad if you wake her.
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Sweetie, dont tell. No one likes tattle-tales.

The first time I heard that knock - when it was still a Can I please come in? knock

I thought it was my father. I thought it was the man that took me out for special father-

daughter dinners every Thursday at Big Joes, and sometimes let me stay up late with him

to watch reruns of Hogans Heroes.

If I had known it was the devil knocking that first time, I would have tried harder to

hide, or fight back, or call for help, or... something. But I didnt know, and I didnt do any

of those things. I sat there unknowingly and called out, Yeah Daddy? like the stupidly

innocent child I was.

I covered up the mirror after that first time the devil visited me. I was once so proud

to tell people that I got my shiny hazel eyes from my father, but after finding out who he

truly was it sickened me to see his eyes glare back from my reflection.

We stopped having our Thursday dinners, but Hogans Heroes nights were still my

favourite. I didnt watch anymore, but listened from my bedroom to him rant to himself

about how Colonel Klink was just as much of a conceded dick as his dad was. I had noticed

this aggressive mumbling a few weeks before that first visit to my room, around the time

his dad passed away. I would rush into bed when he fell asleep midsentence, and could

finally smile because I knew there would be no double knock that night.

I dont remember the exact words I used when I told my mother after eight years of

living in hell, but her reaction was something I can never forget. She had been in her

rocking chair, the clink-clink-crack noise plucking at my nerves as she swayed back and

forth. Her eyes were closed when I told her, but opened immediately when my choked up

monologue had ended.

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She stared silently into my puffy eyes for at least two minutes, her dull green ones

unblinking and calm. It was the longest we had actually looked at each other for probably

over ten years.

Its an odd thing to say about a mother, but we just never clicked. She tended to

ignore me, so I eventually began to do the same. Her late-afternoon stints in the rocking

chair were the only times that I knew where she was and what she was doing.

Mum? I said to break the silence and unnerving eye contact.

Without a word she threw her half-empty glass against the TV, both of them

shattering on contact. I just stood there, shivering in fear and gasping in out, in out, in out at

a quickening pace.

You can leave now, she ordered in the calmest tone imaginable.

I did just that as she reclosed her eyes and began to rock, back and forth, back and

forth, with strands of her dark brown hair sticking up and out of place. That is the last

image I have of my mother, and probably the last one Ill ever get.

The next day I woke up to a loud bang of the front door and the rumbling of my

fathers motorcycle. As I walked hesitantly into the kitchen I noticed a crumpled piece of

paper off to the side of the counter. I flattened it out with a shaking hand my hands had

started doing that months prior and saw a message scribbled in what looked like dark

black eyeliner:

IM LEAVING YOU AND YOUR SLUT DAUGHTER.

They were the best and worst seven words I had ever read. A wave of agonizing

devastation crashed into me so hard that I was forced to grasp the counter for support. At

the same time though, I knew that my chance to get out had finally come. I dont like to

think about what would have happened if I were there when my father came back.
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As the show of memories on my ceiling came to an end, I realized that my face was

drenched with warm, sticky tears. In... out. In... out. My breathing had improved and what

felt like a sense of ease had begun to engulf me.

My father had died two weeks earlier. I was told that he had been full of cancer, and

that my mother was at his funeral. She never tried to contact me.

He had left the house to me, the house where he had taken a trusting child and

broken her down into a million jagged pieces. I had been building myself back up though,

and I knew this was his final taunt, his final way of reminding me who I was and where I

belonged.

I dont belong here. Youre wrong, I said to myself, hoping that somehow he

could hear me.

I got up from the bed and reached for the off-white sheet. I ripped if off the mirror

and stared straight into my dewy hazel eyes. Instead of cursing their likeness to the man I

inherited them from, I recognized them as the eyes of a survivor. A few more of those

jagged pieces clicked back into place as I did so.

Two steps, right, three steps, exit. I knew that I would never again return to this

room as I shut the door behind me. I stepped through the hallway with full lungs and open

eyes. As I left my childhood home to return to my real home, to my loving husband and

two beautiful daughters, and to the place I truly belonged, I knew that I had finally crossed

the line from my past to my future.

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Revision Notes:

One of the main changes I made to my short story was fleshing out the mother and

father characters. Many of my peers commented on the first draft about how the story could

have more purpose and impact if these characters were given more specific features or

dialogue. Now that I did so, there is more tension between the characters, which allows for

a deeper understanding of the protagonist and her experience with abuse.

For the mother, I created a new scene in which the protagonist reveals to her the

abuse her father has put her through. The mothers reaction and subsequent fleeing

emphasizes her absenteeism, and also provided an opportunity to explain how and why the

protagonist actually escaped the abuse and neglect she was put through. I added a brief

dialogue between mother and daughter to accentuate their unhealthy relationship. I also

noted the mothers green eyes and dark hair in order to give the reader a more concrete

image of the character, and mentioned that the protagonist has not seen and does not plan to

see her mother again.

For the father, I included that he and the protagonist had the same hazel eyes. This

explains why the protagonist was previously unable to look at herself in the mirror. I

alluded to the fact that the fathers father was also abusive, and that his death was the

stressor that began the fathers abuse of the protagonist. As well, I included that the father

left the house to the protagonist as a taunt, which explains why she came back. The conflict

in the piece became more tangible after fleshing out both the mother and father characters.

Some other changes I made were a brief description of the protagonists husband,

the reformatting of the meaning of the double knock scene, and the inclusion of the image

of the living room/rocking chair. The revisions were made to substantiate the theme of

overcoming abuse and dealing with the symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder by
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highlighting the protagonists support system and some main components of her

flashbacks.

I would have liked the opportunity to explain why the protagonist decided to tell her

mother about the abuse, but the word count did not allow it. I feel the piece could have also

benefitted from explaining where the protagonist went after she left the abusive home,

although hopefully it is understood that she found a place of safety to allow herself to heal.

Grade: 80%