Copperhead Creek (flash fiction)

I race my bicycle down the narrow path, dust billowing up behind me. Low hanging limbs from the trees above thrash my face and my arms, leaving welts and bloodied scratches. My legs pump as hard as I can push them. Suddenly, my tires lose their grip on the loose soil and I slide sideways. Unable to recover, I go down in a painful skid. I ease up onto my feet; I don’t have time to brush myself off. I remount my bike, ignoring the pain on my left side. Pedaling hard, I gain speed. I follow the path as it gradually widens and becomes an open field. Anxiety wells in my chest. Knowing the consequences of hesitating, I push on. I fly across the meadow, praying my tire doesn’t find a hole or rock. I’m almost there- almost home. Recalling the panicked call from my battered mother, I strain harder. He’s hurting her, right now; Momma’s scared and hurt. I have to get there before it’s too late. Every time he attacks, he gets worse. It’s up to me to save her. Finally, I am close. Our farm is just around the tree line. I leap off the still moving bike and somehow get my feet under me. I run so hard my heart feels like it’s ready to pound right out of my chest. There’s the house. The rundown farmhouse has become tainted with fear and darkness, but home should be something else. Safe. Living here was more dangerous than going swimming in Copperhead Creek. As I sprint around to the front of the house, I glimpse flashing lights. She must have called 911. It must have been really bad this time. Suddenly, I stop. I can’t move a muscle. I see a paramedic wheeling someone through my front door- someone whose face is covered. I pray that it’s him, but it isn’t. He is escorted out next, handcuffed between two grim police officers. I am fifteen. I am alone.