He roared, a string of saliva cascading from his lips. I would have been disgusted if my body wasn’t shaking so hard. I folded myself in the cramped, dark closet and watched in horror. Watched, as the furious man grabbed my mother by the bicep. His knuckles were tight and I knew the spot would later bruise. “No.” I wished I could stand up to him, I wished I could tell him to stop— to put my mother down and leave us forever. I wanted to shout at him, to let him feel every inch of agony and anger I had bottled up inside of myself. Instead, my mind and body settled for the single whisper: “No.” The meat on my bones was limited. I was scrawny for a adolescent. Tall and lanky. How was I supposed to defend my mother, much less myself, from this hulking, powerful man. The man who always managed to smell so profusely, so pungently horrid, every time he knocked on the door to our home; every time he intruded in on our lives. “Stop please.” My moms meager voice quivered underneath his burning stare. His greedy desire for more and more and more was transparent in his red rimed eyes. I couldn’t watch anymore. He never spoke a word to her, nothing save for grunts and huffs. He always forcefully let himself into our house and forced himself onto my measly-sized mother. She was always beautiful, and now, I gathered that wasn’t always a good thing. “P-please I can’t… I can’t.” Tears escaped her deep blue eyes as she cast them to the floor. She knew I was watching behind the closet door. Shame so evident on her every feature. Shame for not being strong enough. Not protective enough. For not trying harder to end this. But helplessness wasn’t a choice. It was forced upon you like a tornado: swift, but completely and utterly, devastating. Again the man only barked a laugh, shoving my mother into the nearest wall. He leaned up into her. His livid anger shaking his own body. He lower his head to her collarbone. I watched the brute’s lungs fill with breath. And then he brought his face higher, closer. I tore my gaze away from my mom as his lips roughly landed on her neck. I cringed, letting my own silent tears fall. Tears escaped quicker. Remembering all the past times he’s done this to her, not even realizing—or caring— about his invasion. Invasion in our house. Invasion.. on my mom. It was disgusting. Nausea gripped my stomach, making it turn and flip. My hand clamped over my mouth, restraining myself. I peered through the crack in the door again. A bare shoulder. A glistening neck. Wet cheeks. Ravaging, hungry hands. I couldn’t look anymore… but— but I couldn’t do nothing. I stared at my palms as a thought struck me numb. Would I be any better than him? No. I would be worse. The door creaked open as I slipped through it. I saw my moms eyes widen, trembling with fear now aimed at me. Her head shook back and forth: a warning. A mother’s worried, terrified warning. I ignored her and went to her bedroom, hoping that the brute wouldn’t take his sins to the bed. Frantic, my heart beat out of my chest. My hands fumbled for the grip to the night stand’s top drawer. It yanked open without protest. Bingo. My tears clear as I held the heavy, dark object up to eye level. I stared at it, fully realizing the seriousness of the situation. I knew how to use it. The only question was if I was willing to. I shook the thought from my head, suddenly finding it clear. The rage had honed my thoughts to focus. To enact revenge. Revenge that was deserved. Legally he’s breaking and entering. I told myself this as I slowly tiptoed back to the living room, where my mother was trapped under that insufferable beast and her own frenzy of emotions. With each step I took, my heart raged against my ribs. The blood pumped in my ears. My fingers, pale as the moon, gripped the cool object tightly. It became my lifeline. It knew it’s purpose, almost as if it had a heart of its own. It yearned for me to use it. It called for me. And now I would answer the call. My body halted right behind the beast. He was too preoccupied with my mom, too busy destroying and taking, that he never realized I was behind him. Click. The safety: disabled. Finally, the man froze, still as the dead. “You know what that is.” My voice was steady, calm. It juxtaposed the swirling feeling in my gut. He visibly gulped, slowly reaching his hands away from my mom. “You are a piece of shit.” I hissed in his ear, his body still tense before me. “I’ve watched you time and time again come into our home. Not anymore. You are not allowed here. Ever. You touch one of us and I swear to God. Your done.” Without thinking, my hand aimed at his leg. Like it was a second nature, my finger found the tigger and pulled. He howled but no sympathy found it’s way into my heart. He stumbled out of the room. With his anger lost, I could finally see him as the drunken man he was: sad, lonely, and broken. No sympathy. He could rot in hell for all I cared. As he limped out the door, bleeding, I knew he would never come back. He wouldn’t dare touch us again. He was a coward. I would never regret shooting the man. It was a blessing, a gift: to never have to see the ugly face or witness his crime again.