You’re sitting on the couch; Glen and Clay are out, doubling. They had invited you and Marissa to come along, but you declined. You’d rather spend this night alone, you don’t want to be bothered by people, and you get exactly what you don’t want.

You hear that bang, your not sure what it is, but you’re curious, so you follow the sound. Up the steps and into your parents bedroom. Another loud bang comes from the room; you push the door open without knocking.

The fear is restored. Your heart pounding, it hurts, the butterflies are swarming, you want to puke, but you can’t move. Your father is standing over your mother. Knuckles stained with blood. She coughs, and takes notice to you.

"Spencer." Is her weak and shaky whisper.

Blood spills from her mouth. He turns to you, takes you in, and then hits her again. He steps back, allows her to fall to the floor. He smiles at me, fear is pumping through my veins. I want it to disappear, to never come back.

He turns back to my mother, spits. Right in her face, she sobs, hard. He makes his way to me, says something to me. Convinces me that she deserved it. I nod my head at his words, letting myself be manipulated. He leaves, packs a bag, and tells me I’m welcome to come with him. He’s manipulated me enough to get me on his side, but not enough to let me leave my mother in this position.

A mere three weeks later she allows him to come home, takes him in with open arms. That’s when it happens, when I make her the enemy. Why would she let him come back if it had been his fault? His presence made me cower in fear, why did I put him on a pedestal?

I felt the bad kind fear with my father abusing my mother and with… Ben. But the good fear I felt it everywhere as a teenager. Experiencing new people, new things.

But what kind of was this fear? What category did this fall into?

As our tongues collide, I feel those familiar feelings. But I can’t distinguish if it’s the good kind or the bad kind…. well maybe I could, I don’t think I want to. I’m not even sure if I like it. Part of me hopes I do the other part hopes I don’t.

As she leads me to her bedroom, and lays me down on the bed I feel everything. But I can’t for the life of me describe it. Its fear. I know that. Me and fear have been quite acquainted in the past. But this, this fear feels different, new.

Maybe it’s not fear; maybe I’m feeling something else.