RAGE by Kimberly A. Bettes Page B

bed.
    I felt bad that she’d worked sixteen hours on her feet and had to come home and put up with Travis. But as bad as I felt for her, it was her choice. If she would make Travis do his share, she wouldn’t have to work so much. But I knew why she didn’t do that. I didn’t understand her reasons, but I knew them.
    She was afraid of being alone. Lots of people were, and I didn’t hold that against her. I just wished she would’ve picked someone else. Actually, if I was going to wish for something, I wished she didn’t feel that she couldn’t be alone. It’s not like Travis added anything to our house. He had no skills, no job, no income, and he was mean. He didn’t beat my mother like he did me, but he was mean to us both. The things he said to and about my mother made my skin crawl. She could do better. She sure couldn’t do any worse.
    I sketched several more pictures. I had no doubt that I would have the sketch pad full before school on Monday. Which was a good thing, but it made me sad. I didn’t know how I’d get another one. This one had been a gift from my art teacher at the beginning of the school year, after she saw how good my drawings were. She had given it to me with a red bow attached to the front cover and told me to unleash my inner artist. I had.
    I was still thinking of ways to make enough money to buy another pad when I heard Travis pull into the driveway. As was always the case whenever I heard Travis come home, my heart began to beat faster, my throat tightened, and my stomach was filled with butterflies. My palms grew damp with sweat. I didn’t enjoy being on edge, but it was what my life had become.
    To avoid ruining my sketches with my sweaty hands, I closed the pad and laid it on the table beside the bed.
    I sat on the bed, back against the wall, and listened as Travis banged his way into the house. It made me angry that he never bothered to try to be quiet when he knew my mother was asleep. He knew how hard she worked and how much she needed her rest, but it didn’t bother him. Then I realized that he probably didn’t know what it was like for her because he’d never worked.
    Soon, Travis came stomping down the hallway and threw open my bedroom door.
    “Get in here,” he said gruffly. He then turned and walked back toward the living room.
    Reluctantly, I followed.
    He was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, twisting the top off a bottle of beer.
    I stood facing him, as far away as I could be without making him mad, afraid of what was coming.
    “Have you seen my gun?” he asked.
    I swallowed hard to remove the lump in my throat. I wasn’t sure what to say. I shook my head no.
    “Don’t lie to me. Have you seen my gun?”
    “Not since last night,” I said quietly. I wanted to add that the last time I’d seen it, he was pointing it at my forehead and pulling the trigger. But there was no sense in asking for trouble when it found me so often on its own.
    “Well Mike and Dale both said they don’t know where it is. Now you say it too. Somebody’s fucking lying.” He walked toward me and I thought I was going to throw up, but before I could, he continued on past me. He walked out the front door, slamming it behind him.
    I sighed, feeling a huge relief. Even as the relief washed over me, I knew it was temporary. This was far from over.
    Since I was already in the kitchen and Travis was outside for the moment, I took the opportunity to eat. I made myself an egg sandwich because it was quick. I wanted to be in my room when Travis came back inside.
    I stood by the sink gobbling down the sandwich and washing it down with a glass of water. I considered watching television, but I didn’t want to be in the living room when he came back in the house. So I went back to my bedroom.
    I was reading an old comic book when Travis came to my door. He opened it and leaned his head in.
    “If your momma wakes up and asks, tell her I went back to Dale’s house.”
    With my