Chapter 2 - The Hostage in the Kitchen
I burst through the hallway doors, ready to demand answers, but the words died in my throat the second I saw her. What I witnessed in that kitchen is a scene that will haunt my nightmares until the day I die.
Amy, my bright, energetic, fiercely loving wife, was hunched over on a flimsy plastic step-stool in the corner of the room. She was completely surrounded by towering, precarious stacks of greasy frying pans, soiled plates, and half-eaten food trays. The stench of stale garlic and old wine was overpowering.
She was frantically, desperately scrubbing dishes with one hand. Her knuckles were raw and bleeding, her fingernails chipped. But it was her other arm that made my heart stop. In her left arm, she was cradling Frederick.
My baby boy was flushed, his skin a terrifying shade of red, and he was visibly burning up with a fever. He was whimpering, a weak, raspy sound that told me he had been crying for hours. Amy looked starved. Her cheekbones jutted out sharply, her eyes were sunken with dark purple bags, and she looked utterly, completely broken. Her clothes were stained and soaked with dishwater.
When she heard my heavy work boots hit the kitchen tile, she flinched violently, like a beaten dog expecting another kick. When she looked up and her bloodshot eyes finally registered that it was me, a plain, dry piece of crusty bread she had been chewing fell from her trembling lips.
"Connor..." she whispered, her voice shaking so badly it barely made a sound. She didn't look relieved. She looked terrified.
"Amy, what is happening?" I choked out, stepping toward her.
She shrank back, instinctively shielding our baby. "Your mom... your mom said I can’t stop yet. I have to serve the coffee and the dessert in five minutes." She glanced toward the sliding glass door leading to the backyard, pure, unadulterated terror flashing in her eyes. "She’s going to be so mad, Connor. Please don't let her come in here. I'm almost done, I promise. Just give me a minute."
Hearing my beautiful wife sound like a terrified, brainwashed hostage inside our very own home completely broke me. A primal, protective rage ignited in my chest. I didn't care about the dishes. I didn't care about the relatives outside.
I stepped forward and gently but firmly took Frederick from her arms. As soon as his skin touched mine, I gasped. His little forehead was radiating heat like a furnace. He was lethargic, barely opening his eyes to look at his dad.
"Stand up, Amy," I said, my voice eerily calm, though a hurricane was raging inside my head.
"But the coffee—"
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"Forget the damn coffee!" I snapped, then immediately softened my tone when she flinched again. "We are leaving. Right now. Grab your purse."
I threw a dish towel over the mountain of dirty plates, grabbed my wife by her wet, trembling hand, and pulled her toward the front door. We didn't look back. We didn't pack bags. I just knew I had to get my family out of that house before I did something I would end up in prison for.
