I pressed the edges of the fabric against my ears, my head sandwiched between the billowed contours of the pillow.
The pulse in my neck thudded, mimicking the patter of rain ricocheting off the window pane.
When I was even younger, I counted the creaks in the floorboards, anticipating his stumbling arrival into his bedroom across the hall. The noise proved too much, the sound of his limbs hitting the floor always reminded me of lightning striking a tree, cracking the branches like weak bones.
Now, I preferred to watch, witnessing the events unfold like the remnants of a silent horror movie.
I'd close my bedroom door just enough to see the outline of his shadow, darkened orbs floating under the rectangular lip of the wood.
Most children are terrified of shadows, imagined monsters that mutate and morph into hideous shapes in the night.
The shadow was comfort, a soothing reminder. He made it home. There wasn't going to be another bottle opened, more ice cubes clinking against the glass. No more guttural sobs emanating from my mother's coarse throat.
Once I saw his shadow cast across the dimly lit hall, I knew I was safe for one more day.