Chapter 6 - The Escape
I didn't look back. I grabbed Emiliano’s hand and hurled ourselves down the narrow, unlit servant stairs.
Behind us, Teresa’s shrill screams tore through the quiet house, accompanied by the thunderous footsteps of my father charging up the main stairs, realizing too late that his prey had slipped through the floorboards.
"Stop her!" Teresa shrieked from above. "Robert, the back door! She’s heading for the garage!"
Emiliano was crying, his little sneakers stumbling on the wooden steps. "Mommy, Mommy, I'm scared!"
"Run, Emi! Keep running!" I urged, half-carrying, half-dragging him down the steep incline.
We burst through the bottom door into the laundry room. The scent of bleach and detergent hit my nostrils just as the kitchen door flew open ten feet away. My father filled the frame, his face purple with exertion, an iron wrench in his right hand.
"Clara, drop the bag and let go of the boy!" Robert bellowed, his voice shaking the drywall. "You take one more step and you'll regret it for the rest of your life!"
For twenty-eight years, that voice had commanded my absolute obedience. That voice had made me cower in corners, apologize for existing, and surrender every ounce of my autonomy.
I looked at the wrench in his hand, then looked down at the bruise on my son’s face.
"Go to hell, Dad," I said.
I hit the button for the electric garage door, shoved Emiliano through the side door into the garage, and slammed the heavy fire door behind us, turning the deadbolt just as Robert’s body threw itself against the outside panel.
*BANG! BANG! BANG!*
"Open this door, you ungrateful bitch!" my father roared, rattling the brass knob violently.
The metal garage door was slowly grinding upward, screaming along its rusted tracks. I hit the unlock button on my key fob. My beat-up Honda Civic chirped in the shadows. I threw Emiliano into the back seat, buckled his harness with trembling hands, and slammed the door shut.
"Keep your head down, baby! Stay on the floor!"
I jumped into the driver's seat, jammed the key into the ignition, and twisted. The engine sputtered, coughed, and died.
"No, no, no... please, God, please," I prayed, slamming my hand against the steering wheel.
Through the rear window, I saw the fire door shudder. The wood around the frame splintered under the impact of Robert’s wrench. Another hit, and the lock tore away from the jamb. Robert stumbled into the garage, his eyes wild, spitting saliva as he sprinted toward the car.
I turned the key again. The Honda roared to life.
I dropped the shifter into reverse, stomped on the gas pedal, and dumped the clutch. The tires screeched, sending up a cloud of blue smoke. The rear bumper cleared the descending garage door by inches, clipping my father’s shoulder as he lunged forward. He went down on his knees with a curse that was swallowed by the screech of rubber.
I swung the wheel violently, backing down the long gravel driveway.
From the front porch, Teresa emerged in her silk blouse, screaming into a cell phone—undoubtedly calling the police chief, who had been a family friend for thirty years.
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I shifted into drive, floored the accelerator, and tore out onto the main road, the tires kicking up stones that clattered against the undercarriage. In the rearview mirror, my childhood home—a monument of lies and cruelty—shrank until it was swallowed by the morning fog.
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