The next morning, it was stiflingly quiet in the house. It was an icy, unnatural calm. Karen stopped by the rug in the hallway, Emily’s overflowing diaper bag already slung over her shoulder. David cleared his throat and looked at the ground. “Mom,” he said, his voice lacking the usual cadence, “can we just discuss this in the kitchen?”
I took a step towards him, a reproachful tone forming on my lips, completely unaware of the trap that had already been set. I only saw the shadow move when it was too late.
Chapter 2: The sound of the night bolt
Before I could grasp the geometry of their sudden movement, David grabbed my biceps. The grip was shockingly hard; his fingers cut into my flesh and bruised my muscle instantly. My breath caught in my throat. I stumbled forward, dragged along by the sudden movement.
‘David, what in heaven’s name—’ I began, my voice breaking and sounding confused.
Karen acted with terrifying efficiency. She snatched Emily’s plastic carrier from the side table, whereupon the baby let out a startled groan. I screamed then, a raw, throaty sound, convinced that this was merely a grotesque escalation of a family quarrel, a temporary madness that would disappear as soon as they came to their senses. I expected David to let it go, apologize, rub himself in shame.
Instead, he dragged me roughly to the heavy oak door at the end of the hallway. The cellar.
I remember the sensory assault of those few seconds crystal clear. Emily’s whimpering that turned into a full, terrified howl. The creaking of my orthotic insoles sliding uselessly across the polished wooden floor. The nauseating, leaden feeling of pure terror that sank into my stomach when Karen turned the brass doorknob and swung the cellar door wide open, revealing the gaping, black opening of the stairwell.
‘David, please!’ I screamed, as I dug my claws into his forearm.
He didn’t look at me. He just pushed me.
