Not a lullaby

They didn’t know I was listening. I didn’t know, really. I had been sleeping. I snuggled under the blankets with my favorite stuffed animal, PJ, a ratty looking brown dog with ears that once were white, and a lopsided smile that was once straight. Although I had my own room, it shared a wall with theirs. I could hear whispering if I put my ear to the wall. But, that night, they weren’t whispering. And I didn’t want to hear.

My eyes were still closed, but my heart began to pound to the rhythm of their raised voices. I held PJ tightly to my chest as I burrowed under the blanket, trying not to hear. I didn’t understand the words, but I felt them like nails piercing my skin, my heart, causing tears to spill from my closed eyes. PJ’sear soaked up my tears and stifled the whimpering I couldn’t hold back as their voices got louder.

“Mommy,” I whispered into PJs ear when I heard the crack of skin viciously meeting skin. 

My eyes snapped open, wide and sightless in the darkness of my room. Silence followed the echo of my soft cry. Then footsteps running down the stairs. The slamming of the front door. The sound of a car door opening and closing; the motor starting. The screech of tires and the spray of gravel as the car pulled off.

Silence again.

I knelt in my bed, PJ hanging from my mouth as I pressed my ear to the wall.  

“Mommy,” I moaned, hearing the muted sound of her crying through the wall.