ELLA, 1994
Now it is completely quiet downstairs.
Mom has stopped screaming. The only thing I can hear is the television. Some music, someone singing. It sounds creepy, all those happy voices in the dark. Like a bunch of wicked trolls dancing and laughing in the living room. Gran knows all about trolls, and if they like to live in Iceland, then maybe they also like living here. I’ll sit quietly and wait for something to happen. Wait for Mom to call me, like she always does, tell me it’s just a game. That I don’t understand, that I’m dreaming. But I don’t usually dream with my eyes open, sitting on the steps. Nothing is happening. Where is she? Why doesn’t she come back?
I sneak barefoot down the stairs to take a look. There are marks on the wooden floors, and on the carpet in front of the sofa. It’s blood, it’s sticky under my feet. I try not to step in the puddle, but it’s so dark, and there’s so much of it. The door to the kitchen and the one out to the hallway are open, the door in the hall keeps banging against the wall in the wind.
I see a glimpse of a shape disappearing down the path that splits down to the sea and Gran’s house. Mom! Somebody has hurt Mom. It was Dad. He had a strange look on his face when he put her in the bathtub. His eyes looked weird. He was so angry, he kept yelling at her. I touch my throbbing face. My eyebrow hurts.
But I like Dad. He’s nice to me. He’s not usually like that.
Once Mom read me a story, Ol’ Yeller, it was called. Ol’ Yeller is a dog, he is kind and friendly—actually, he’s really a very nice dog—but then one day, he gets bitten by a bear, and the bear gives him a sickness called rabies. People said Ol’ Yeller would bite, if he got any sicker. So they put Ol’ Yeller down, so he couldn’t bite anyone anymore.
Maybe Dad also got sick like that.
I stand by the door for a long time. I can’t decide what to wear. The rain is ice-cold against my face. I don’t like going out when it’s dark, but I don’t like being home on my own, either. And Mom is out there in the storm. What if something happens to her, something that I can’t fix again?
I stick my feet into my galoshes. It looks really dumb. Bare legs stuck into a pair of galoshes, my pink nightdress on top. Not the thing to wear in this weather. But I could zip my winter jacket over it. Yes, that ought to work. I step outside, carefully close the door behind me.
It is very, very dark, but I can see my galoshes, I can see my hands. And the tiles in the driveway. Dad’s red car is standing in the drive. But nobody is in the car. I feel like I’m going to cry, I hate being alone, all on my own.
I bite into my cheek. I’m not going to cry. Once I start bawling, I won’t be able to stop, I just know it. And if I’m bawling my head off, I’ll scare whatever is out there away, it will hear me coming a mile off.
I go to the car. It’s ice-cold and sopping wet. I open the door and crawl onto the back seat. I lean over the seat and reach into the trunk of the car, a black pit, but it’s still there, the gun. I saw it when I got back from Thomas’s place. It was zipped up in its bag, as always, but for some reason, Dad has forgotten to lock it into the big metal cupboard in the garage, as he usually does. I pull the gun-bag up onto the backseat and open it. The gun is heavy. It smells of iron and gunpowder, the barrel is all sticky with oil. I helped Dad oil the gun myself a couple of days ago. There’s a little box of cartridges in the bag as well.
I kick the car door wide open with one leg, then the light goes on. So I can see what I’m doing. It’s hard to cock the barrel, there’s a knob you have to push down, hard, at the same time; you have to fold the gun AND squeeze it under your arm. It hurts a little, but the rest is easy. You put the cartridges in the barrel and click everything into place, just like Dad showed me. I get out of the car and close the door behind me. With the door shut it’s absolutely black again, I’m a little scared now, but I feel better with the gun. A gun is not a stick or a knife or a stone. A little person with a gun can beat a big person with no gun.
I can take care of Mom.
I run down to the dunes; my bare knees are wet and so cold. The gun is banging against my shins. I fall down twice, I’m already so tired, and it’s hard to run in the sand when it’s so wet. But I keep going. I’m a big girl. Dad said so. I keep running. Looking out for Mom’s white nightdress, listening for her voice. Trying to be quiet, creeping through the dunes like a little brown toad. My throat is thick and it’s hard to breathe. The rain keeps getting in my eyes, I have to stop all the time and wipe them dry and my fingers are frozen stiff.
The light from Gran’s house is coming closer. I must be going the right way. And then I see her. Mom. She’s on her way up the dune just in front of me, her white nightdress shining pale in the dark, I’m so close now, I can see her blonde hair, and her shoulders. I try to run faster, but my legs don’t want to run anymore. She hasn’t seen me yet, but now I’m almost at the top of the dune, she’s standing there at the bottom, looking at something in front of her. It looks like she’s crying, but I can’t hear anything in the wind. But then there is something.
It’s a man, he’s screaming like a wild animal.
“Ill kill you.”
I hear the words quite clearly, I’m sure of it, even though the wind is howling. This is the dangerous part. I have to be really careful now. I sit on my knees and pull the lever back slowly. Now I’m ready to shoot.
I get up and start to run, the gun pointed at the bad guys just ahead. It’s hard to keep the gun up, it’s hard to keep running, even harder than it was before, but I’m a big girl.
And then I fall.
My fingers are stuck in the gun. It hurts when I try to pull them out. It sounds like an explosion, like a fat roll of thunder in my ears.