Brooke Story

Disclaimer: This fictional story contains severe domestic abuse.

The workers were soaked in sweat, struggling to unload box after box. You could call this a stable job,
at least for those who live in slums. With 20 boxes unloaded, they’d have enough to buy some bread and something to drink.
Compared with these workers, Brooke Rogers should have been content with what she earned.

Bareknuckle boxing brought her danger, but also opportunity.
 After boxing, she headed home, walking down the old street. That day, however, something happened.
 She stopped and looked through an open window as she heard a loud crash from the rundown house next to her.

"Family is family; just leave them alone."
"Come on, let’s go home. Don’t bother him; he’s a demon."

Rogers kept standing, watching, ignoring the words from the people passing by as they shook their heads and hurriedly fled.
The drunk man held a broken liquor bottle, hitting the woman's head against the wall.
 Blood mixed with the woman's anguished cry.

"Please, stop."
"Keep your mouth shut, \*\*\*\*"

Rogers’s vision reddened with rage. She stared at this man, and a multitude of similar scenes invaded her brain.
The drunk man continued to beat the woman, harder and harder, mercilessly.
When Rogers was a child, she had hidden helplessly in the corner, shivering and stifling her whimpers,
not daring to make a noise that might provoke more pain.
But she learned that even silence is useless.

After the man gave the woman a final ferocious kick, he pulled the child up by her collar and screamed:
 "Is she my child?"
The woman was speechless with despair and could only nod her bloodied head frantically,
 angering the man even more.

A loud noise dragged Rogers back to reality. She saw the woman fall heavily to the ground,
the light slowly fading from her eyes.
The memory of the past coincided with the picture of the present.
 Heat flowed through her body and made Rogers tremble.
 She clenched her teeth and balled her fists, trying to restrain her anger.

"Stop, you'll \*\*\*\* her." Rogers’s voice was trembling, and it took all her strength to speak clearly.
The woman raised her head with difficulty, looked out of the window at Rogers, and whispered:
 "Please...save my child... "

In the corner of the room, there lay a small baby. The child was swaddled and peaceful.
"That \*\*\*\*\*! Is not mine!”
 The drunk man burped and staggered to the baby.
 The woman tugged at his leg with all her strength; he hit the woman's head with a stool.

"Stop!" Rogers yelled.
The drunk man gave the woman a halfhearted kick,
 then looked at Rogers provocatively:
 "It's none of your business."

The memory of her father sneering at her in much the same way crashed into Rogers's mind.
 “What can you do?” he’d asked, “you're just a kid.”

But now she's grown up.
Before the drunk man touched the baby,
Rogers jumped in through the window, grabbed him by the collar, and hit him in the face.

With a cry of pain, the drunk man was momentarily airborne, falling loudly on the ground, fainting.
"Thank you..." The woman’s face was full of blood, but her expression softened.
"Could you take her away?"

Rogers picked the child up.
The child was lovely. She suddenly opened her eyes,
murmured, and struggled to bite.
Rogers held the baby in her arms and then looked back at the woman.
"She's fine."

The woman abruptly let out a last breath, relaxed, and closed her eyes.
Rogers walked out of the broken house and looked at the swaying figures in the street.

The drunk man behind her stumbled to a standing position and opened his now vacant eyes.

His desire for blood and fresh meat was clear.
Rogers spun around, launching her fists in a flurry of blows.

The real fight begins.

See Brooke for more info.
Go back to Storyworld.

If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic abuse please reach out to your local help center.