The sound of glass breaking startled me awake. My bedroom door slowly creaked ajar; muffled sounds echoing through the house.
My little sister, Eminé, hurriedly crept in with our baby brother, Ezra, on her hip.
"Noa, I'm scared.." She whispered shakily as tears were streaming down her face.
I jumped out of bed, rushing them into the room.
"I will be right back, stay here and lock the door." I said in a serious, hushed tone.
"Wait..! Noa, where are you going?!" She yelled mildly.
"Don't worry about me, just make sure you two stay safe."
As I closed the door behind me, I began to stealthily make my way down the stairs, slowly approaching the noise.
I saw the silhouette of two men, and the small outline of a woman being tossed around effortlessly. I realized it was my mother.
The scene before me made me freeze in an instant. I felt a numbing sensation take over my body. I couldn't move. Speak. Blink. Or avert my gaze. I was a statue. My breathing began to shallow, tears welled in my eyes, my pores began to sweat.
Just then, my mother spotted me. Blood spilled from her mouth as she motioned for me to hide.
I sought out a spot in the closet that reside in the space we labeled the mudroom.
I watched as they fled the scene from the small crevice where I chose to hide.
The only thoughts ripping though my mind were--
'What the hell am I going to tell my siblings.?.' and
'What are we going to do?..'
***
My eyes flew open as I jolted from my slumber in a cold sweat. Five years later and the memories still haunt me. There's no escape. I see their silhouettes, looming like shadows. I see her face looking at me, motioning for me to hide. I still shudder at loud noises, like when the glass broke that night.
And while all that is true, buried deep underneath the surface of that fear, is rage. Rage in its purest form. Rage so spiteful and hate-fueled, it's deadly.
Over the years I've learned that it's better to suppress all emotions, as even the slightest hint of negativity can cause the rage to bubble over. Spewing venom of all kinds; that just being the exposition of it all. I will have my revenge even if it's the last thing I do. It will be skillful, tactical, and most of all, least expected.
After all, revenge is a dish best served cold.