Slingshot

She ran across the room, 
Bolting toward her bedroom. 
She slid to the fortress under her bed, 
Just the same every other day. 

She grasped the pillow that was surrounded by stuffed animals,
Implanting it over her ears and in front of her eyes. 
She pulled the blanket over her fetal positioned body, 
Using these items to block out the roaring noise in the next room.

She began silently crying to not alert the others, 
They were having a big enough battle without her interfering.
She knew that it would end the same as it usually did, 
Just another routine that seemed like an endless cycle.

It’d start off with her father returning with the whiskey stain on his breath, 
Accompanied by his hand in an eternal fist.
The whiskey always drew his hand back like a slingshot, 
Only releasing when her mother asked him where he’d been.

She knew that her mom already had the answer, 
And she almost wished her mom would stop asking.
Then as they began screaming and her mother was on the floor, 
She’d race to her room because she didn’t want to be next. 

Her mother would finally figure out how to work her feet,
All while her father unloaded the slingshot once more.
Her mother would threaten to leave but we all knew that would never happen, 
And he unloaded the slingshot until she stopped figuring out how to find her feet.

She still lay with her blanket and pillow, 
Barricading her in their sweet grasps.
Waiting till the next day when her mother would tell her what excuse they would use now,
While her father would go to the bar and fill the slingshot with rounds.