Chapter 1 - The Digital Witness
I didn't scream back. I didn't cry. I didn't even argue.
When you realize you are dealing with monsters, you stop trying to speak human to them. I backed slowly down the driveway, my body shielding Leo from the chilling wind and my father’s alcohol-fueled glare. I reached my battered sedan parked on the street. With one hand, I opened the back door, gently buckling a trembling Leo into his car seat. I wrapped the spaceship blanket tighter around him, whispering that everything was going to be fine.
"Running away like always!" my mother’s voice pierced the cold evening air. "Don't bother coming back until you have our money!"
I ignored her. I walked back into the yard, ignoring the ruined clothes and the soaked stuffed bear. I grabbed my work tablet—miraculously, the screen wasn't cracked—and my purse, which contained my car keys and my ID. I left the rest. Clothes could be replaced. Toys could be bought again. What mattered right now was survival.
I got into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and drove away without a backward glance.
Two miles down the road, I pulled into the brightly lit parking lot of a 24-hour diner. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely put the car in park. My jaw throbbed, a brutal, pulsing pain radiating up to my ear. I looked in the rearview mirror. My lip was split open, a dark purple bruise already forming across my cheekbone.
I turned back to Leo. His breathing was even, thanks to the nebulizer treatment at the clinic, but his eyes were wide with terror.
"Mommy's okay, baby," I promised, forcing a smile that made my split lip bleed again.
I pulled out my phone. My heart hammered against my ribs as I opened the home security app. My parents were technological dinosaurs; they still struggled with their smart TV. When I had installed the digital doorbell last month to keep track of my Amazon packages, they hadn't paid it any mind.
I scrolled to the timeline. Motion Detected: 6:42 PM.
I hit play.
There it was in crystal-clear, 1080p high definition, complete with crisp audio. My mother’s shrieking demands for money. My calm refusal. And then, the sickening crack of my father’s heavy hand striking my face, sending me crashing to the concrete with my sick child.
I downloaded the clip to my phone, emailed it to my personal address, and uploaded it to a cloud drive. It was safe. The evidence of their brutality was immortalized.
Then, I dialed 911.
May you like
"911, what is your emergency?" the dispatcher answered.
"I’d like to report an assault," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I have video evidence. And I need an officer to meet me at the Starlight Diner on 4th Street."
