“We’re being followed.”

Mama pretends not to hear me. She cranks up the volume on the radio. Sings aloud with Aretha. Belts along with the Queen of Soul about R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

I have a headache. I want to turn off the radio and go to sleep. I want her to shut up.

But Mama’s face shuts me up. Her fat purpling eye shut me up. Her bruised swollen cheeks shut me up. Her cracked bleeding lips shut me up.

Battle scars she calls them.

Her battle scars earn her the right to scream along with Aretha as much as she wants. As loudly as she wants. As freely as she wants. My headache be damned. So I let her sing.

Red, white and blue lights illuminate on top of the car behind us. Mama ignores that, too. A siren begins to wail. Mama sings louder, saying she knows what you want and baby, she’s got it. She’s got it all right.

“Mama!”

If possible, the sirens seem to grow louder. The louder Mama sings the louder the sirens seem to get. So I have to scream.

I have to scream over Mama.

I have to scream over Aretha.

I have to scream over my Daddy kicking and shouting from the trunk.

Mama turns the radio off suddenly. Daddy’s screams are getting louder. Her bleeding, cracked lips form into a smile and I think she’s enjoying this. She twists the wheel like she’s going to pull over but she puts her foot to the gas instead. Guns it, propelling the car forward. Faster. Mama calls Daddy something under her breath. She ignores the lights and sirens. Her eyes never leave the road.

“Why didn’t you tell me what he did to you.” It’s a statement—not a question. She chokes on her words. Her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.

My head hangs low.

If I had just opened my stupid mouth .

“You should’ve called for me, Baby Girl. Yell, shout, scream—something. I would’ve saved you.” Mama takes her eyes off the road for the first time. Looks at me through puffy well-beaten eyes. “I would’ve protected you.”

I can’t meet her eyes. Those puffy, wounded battle scars she calls eyes.

We’re flying now. In the midst of a high speed chase that would be exciting if I wasn’t so tired. If my head didn’t hurt so much. If Mama wasn’t so beaten up.

If Daddy wasn’t screaming from the trunk.

If I had just opened my mouth .

It’s starting to rain. Large heavy pelts that Mama seems not to notice. She turns the radio back on. It’s Nina Simone’s turn now. She and Mama sing a duet about how love can bring such misery and pain.

I look at Mama again. See the misery etched in her weary eyes. See the pain she wears—the battle scars—and I want to cry.

If I had just opened my stupid mouth .

“Mama,” I whisper.

It’s my fault what happens next. My hoarse whisper forces her to take her eyes off the road. She looks at me. Gives me one of those smiles that only Mama’s can give that make you feel like everything is going to be OK. Mama can do that just with her smile. Even cracked and bloodied, her smile tells me that everything is going to be OK.

But everything is not OK. In a matter of seconds, Mama makes several fatal mistakes.

She accidentally hits the trunk release lock instead of the automatic wiper button. Startled, she doesn’t see the bright black and yellow “Dangerous Curve” warning sign up. Speeds through the curb on a slick road in a car with bald tires. Mama over-corrects. Slams on the breaks. Twists the wheel in the wrong direction.

Daddy screams even louder as he forces open the trunk.

The car slides sideways. Flips over hard on my side. Starts to roll down a steep embankment.

I am paralyzed by fear. Just like how I always get when I’m scared. I don’t say anything. Just close my eyes. Hold my breath.

And I pray.

It takes an eternity for the world to right itself.

It could’ve been seconds. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been hours. But everything is finally quiet.

But it’s too quiet.

It hurts my neck, but I look over at Mama. She’s sleeping now. So peaceful. Too peaceful. Too quiet.

And Daddy?

No, I don’t hear him anymore.

He’s no longer screaming from the trunk.

Pain rips through my shoulder. My back. My legs. My arms.

My headache long forgotten.

Why is it so quiet?

I suddenly hate this sound, this deafening quiet.

The silence is too loud for me.

It’s too much for me

So I open my mouth.

And I scream.