A bad moment

For years I lived with the anxiety that during a dispute in the house someone would get hurt. 

It would start as an obstinate dispute on something trivial, maybe politics or some sort of old drama, and it would escalate. Ego and dissatisfaction would force the two parties to say unnecessary things just to hurt the other. Offensive words would transform to yells, hands and arms would move aggressively following the unhinged mind, becoming body and mind one explosive cannon ball as it’s being placed in a human-sized cannon. This would continue for some moments, growing, becoming stronger, a black beast swallowing everything like a black hole. The other people in the room would have to choose a side and get verbally involved, supporting and opposing until the room would become a mine field where clueless, fresh soldiers step on and explode into pieces. The energy would become suffocating, a child would start crying, someone would shout something nasty to the parent about not being a worthy mother, there would be an equally derogatory shout and then suddenly a hand would swing high up in the air and unrestrained would land on someone’s face. 

After that, and in a fragment of a second, someone would chime in and manage another blow. Moments later hair would be flying around, clothes would be torn, faces would be red and eyes would shine with the fury of a madman. Someone would scream for help, furniture would break, a shout “she’s killing me” would just linger in the air unheard, and the child would continue crying breathless, her face red and her clothes wet with tears. 

Soon, violence and aggression would seek for stronger punches, deeper wounds, fingers would try to blind someone, scratches would start covering people’s arms and face and blood would start flowing and reinforcing the need for killing. Death would be around, laying its invisible hand on people’s heads, choosing the potential victim and then the dice would be thrown, the choice would be made and the weakest one would lose balance, fall, hit his or her head, blood would start gushing out, a word or two would slip the mouth and death would turn the eyes dull. Cries of despair would shake the foundation of the house, neighbors would call the police who would come only too late. The one responsible for the fatal blow would be crying on the floor next to the lifeless body as a sign of forgiveness that was never given. The child would continue the unsuspecting crying, the police would ask for the reasons of the fight as if it really mattered, the ambulance would remove the body, the police would take all the adults to the police department and the child would be held be a neighbor who would try it calm her down telling her that her parents weren’t supposed to ever become parents, words that would remain  in her subconscious for ever. 

That was my fear, something that I carry and foster deep inside my soul, something that I have put together from memories of fights that only by pure luck didn’t escalate to the extent I have just described. 

The dead person would be my grandmother or my mother and the child crying its heart out would be me. In reality, this has never happened, but in my mind my parents have died like that hundreds of times.