My Name Is

I am locked away in my room, trying to burn the images of my mother being beaten bloody out of my mind. However, they stick to the edges of my memories regardless of what I want. Her bloody, bruised face and his hand relentlessly striking her again and again, each time creating a sharp, harsh sound. It pains me to think of it. However, I know it is happening at this very moment. I'm not completely oblivious to the cries and screams. It isn't fair. And that idiot Greg, the one beating her, will get what is coming to him.

I hate him. I wish that my mother would turn him into the police or something. I knew that she would never do it though. She's as afraid of him as I am. I would love to watch him being wheeled off into a state prison myself. But, as it is, I would never risk telling anyone about him. Greg has threatened me numerous times; if I were to ever turn him in, I would be dead. Dead. It has an ominous ring to it; a ring that I do not plan on hearing.

However, as I heard the screaming grow louder and louder, I couldn't help but react. Instinct. Love for my suffering mother. I stand, taking a deep breath, and come out of my room, my safe haven. Hectic doesn't even begin to describe the world outside of my dismal haven. The screaming is even louder in the hallway. I cringe inwardly and begin my descent down the stairs, towards my mother's bedroom. I vaguely remember times before Greg came along; before all of this happened.

I remember one stormy night, when the thunder was so loud it shook the windows. I had been terrified. My brother, Jaekin, who is now in college, had slept through the whole horrible night of lightning and thunder; he had an uncanny ability of sleeping through every possible thing. The house could have been on fire and he would never notice. I had skittered down the stairs, flinching at the sounds of thunder that seemed to be directly overhead, and had come to my mother's room, crying. She had opened the door, wrapping her long, warm arms around me and I had felt so safe.

I remember her from that time as if it were yesterday. Her curly blond hair, unruly from sleeping on it the wrong way, her silk pink bathrobe with those intricate little Chinese flowers on it, her tired, comforting smile, the way she smelled faintly of Dove soap and the strawberries and cream shampoo from our one, small bathroom in the house, which happens to be inconveniently on the first floor, and the way she had felt so warm and full of life. It was so much different now. Her hair no longer shines, we no longer have the money for silk bathrobes so she wears old t-shirts to bed, she no longer smiles that wonderful smile, and she just looks old and hurt. It's like some other person has come to replace her. The sad part is that it's actually her. I want so badly for the old "mommy" to be here.

As I cautiously turn the cold, cheap golden doorknob to her bedroom, I say a silent prayer for my life. 'Please don't kill me. Please don't let her be too hurt.' As the door gives way, I catch my first sight of blood on the carpet. I wince at the sight of it and then I see the entire picture. I can't breathe. My mother is laying sprawled out defenseless on the floor, next to the crimson stained carpet, her face is covered in the same stain, her clothes nearly match the carpet. Her beautiful curls are wet and cemented to her bloody head. Her reddened, teary eyes are looking up at me in horror. This can't be my mother. Who could do this to anyone?

I learn my answer as I feel a hand connect with the side of my face. The hit sends me crashing to the floor, leaving me to feel lightheaded and unreal. I look up fearfully as I notice the shadow cast on me. Greg. His ugly, grungy face is looking down at me and his huge, manly bulk looms over me. I feel small and insignificant under his glaring figure; as if he could crush me with his burly hands.

"What the hell are YOU doing in here?" Greg asks me as he casually rams one of his feet into my side. I involuntarily cry out, clutching my side. It hurts so much, as if something has been broken. Perhaps it was just another bruise, another welt. My mother is whimpering in her pool of blood, tears are coming from her dim, weary eyes. Greg turns and looks at her, disgust on his greasy face, and then he delivers me a kick to my face. I feel my nose crush beneath his shoe. Blood spews out of it, running over my lips, down my chin, onto the carpet. I feel tears running from my eyes. I am whimpering too, now.

"Greg, baby, honey, leave Lelei alone. She hasn't done anything. Just let her go back to her room. You've-" My mother's voice was cut short when Greg began beating her again, his kicks more furious, with some sense of his renewed insane anger. I watch in horror as I hear bones crack and see blood spray from the various injuries. I have never seen anyone kick so hard as to draw blood.

All of a sudden, a strange feeling comes over me. It is like a light, empowering breath of fresh air. It vaguely feels as if I'm not there, not in control, not getting the life beat out of me. I stand up, as if pulled by imaginary puppet strings. Greg turns on me, ready to knock the life out of me. I notice the blood on his pants and shoes. I began to shake with a feeling I have never experimented with before. Anger.

"I have a name," I say, calmly.

Greg is turning livid, paling with the intensity of his fury.

"My name is Lelei."

He grabs my throat, tightening his sausage-like fingers around it. I can't breathe, but it doesn't bother me. I smile. He can't win. He won't win.

"I hate you," I spit out at him. And just like that, he released me. He was clutching his chest, his eyes wide, as if he were having a heart attack. My smile widens. "Die, Greg. Feel everything that you have ever done to my mother. Die. Die. Die." He croaks out something between a strangled scream and a cry for help. My mother is screaming again, though this time she's afraid of me, I can tell. I can feel her fear, her pain, her injuries, her heartbeat, her veins pulsing with life. I can feel Greg's windpipe constricting, his brain starving from lack of oxygen, his heart slowing.

"Stop. Li, stop."

I don't know whose voice it is, but I feel myself being pulled under by a current of exhaustion. Everything is going black; my world is fading. Unconsciousness hits me as soon as I hear Greg crash through a window and onto our front lawn.