Life in my shoes

Over and over I listened to her screams for help but was unable to offer any assistance, instead I sat and cried, hands over my ears, waiting for someone, anyone, to come and rescue her.
My guilt of not helping was mixed with fear. I knew I should do something, but what? I was faced with an overwhelming decision - fight or flight.
Scared and daunted by what I might see, I descended the stairs, slowly, quietly, trying desperately to contain my sobs. The screaming, shouting and banging growing louder with each step.
As I entered the kitchen I saw another blow being delivered to her head, blood dripped on the tiled floor from her face, a face who belonged to someone I knew, a face that was swollen, bruised and bleeding. Contorted with pain and desperation she pleaded to me to get help. The face that belonged to my Mother.

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