-- TW: Mentions of domestic abuse --

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I was only 10 years old when it first happened. I sat on the floor in my room rocking my stuffed bear to sleep. If I couldn’t sleep from all the screaming, maybe he could. Poor Mr. Stuffington.

“You fucking bitch!” I hear my father’s voice boom from the hall.

“Please, Arthur,” My mom’s voice trembles as she tries to quell him. “Not in front of Alison.” Glass smashes, likely another picture frame. I rock harder.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” He rumbles.

Footsteps quickly pad down the hallway as my mother throws open my door and slams it shut. I don’t look up, I just keep rocking.

“Alison,” She whispers urgently. I don’t look. Keep rocking. Sleep Stuffington. “Alison!” She starts to cry as I look up. She mimes covering her ears and closing her eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t look.” I notice her hand is holding a piece of broken glass.

Bang bang bang! My door handle rattles and the frame creaks as he begins to force his way in. “Arthur, please! For the love of God!” She sobs as the door finally busts open.

He starts to reach for her throat as she quickly takes the shard of glass and shoves it deep into his throat. Blood sprays everywhere. Gurgling, choking, sobbing. If I only I had had time to follow her directions. Shh Mr. Stuffington, you’re okay.

I look to my mom as her breathing slows and she braces herself against the wall. What was my father laying on the floor. She turns to me now and slowly walks to me. She kneels down and takes my face in her hands.

“We’re safe now, honey.” She gives me a sad smile.

Suddenly a red number 1 appears above her head as my dad rattles out his last breath

.…

Since that day I’ve seen many kill counts. Most people are zeros — obviously. I can see them in person or on screens. I tested it with famous serial killers several times by looking at their pictures.

Sometimes I think of it as a blessing, it keeps me safe. It keeps me away from those who could hurt me, or my family. I’m 28 now with a wonderful husband and 5 year old son. I like to think my kill count power brought me safely to them. Of course my husband is a 0.

“Richard! I’m home.” I come in from grocery shopping to see my husband waiting for me. He shifts his weight from side to side, avoiding my gaze. “Richard, is something wrong?” He looks up at me and gives me a sheepish smile.

"Um,” He stops for a minute and looks to the floor. “Alex wanted to go to a friend’s house today after school, so I let him.” He winces as my face flushes with heat.

“You what?!” I almost scream. My breathing catches in my throat as I brace myself against the counter. “Who? Who?”

“Alison, we can’t keep him sheltered forever. He needs to make friends, be his own kid. I met with the parents, they seemed like wonderful people. He will be back within the hour.”

He met them, but I didn’t. I need to see them, they could’ve murdered him already. Tears well up in my eyes as I picture burying my only child. I start to rock my arms as I feel Richard put his hands on my shoulders.

“Ali, look at me.” I slowly look up. “He will be fine.” I wish I could believe him. You don’t know how many murderers we all walk past everyday. Anyone, anywhere. This is why I made the rules. No going anywhere without me. I can keep him safe. And now, he doesn’t have me.

I don’t pick Alex up from school out of fear. I’d rather be blissfully ignorant most of the time. I don’t necessarily have a choice in sending him there. Richard just thinks I have social anxiety. I could never tell anyone about this power. One, because they wouldn’t believe me. And two, they might make me their next kill for knowing.

I rock, pace, and pray as the hour passes. Richard decided to let me decompress on my own. I don’t blame him, but he needs to understand my rules. The doorbell snaps me out of my daytime nightmares as I almost run to the door. My baby boy safe and… my breath hitches in my throat. I feel myself go numb. Richard thanks the family and ushers Alex back inside.

“See Ali? Perfectly fine." He ruffles Alex’s hair and walks away. I stare at my child. His counter. It should be a 0. It needs to be a 0. I blink so many times, I rub my eyes.

“Mommy? Are you okay?” His big blue eyes stare up at me.

“Uh, yeah, honey. Mommy just needs to lie down.” I practically run for the bedroom. I slam the door and lock it behind me. Mr. Stuffington looks at me from the headboard. I begin to rock.

Why does my baby boy have a 1 above his head?