Page 71 of Don't Puck Up
“Get the fuck away from him,” I screamed. “I’ll fucking kill all of you if you lay another finger on him.”
“Typical, the little faggot needs his woman to defend him.”
A wad of spit landed on the ground near Chris’s head, and I whirled around to see which one of them did it.
They walked away, slamming the door as they went inside. I looked through the window, and the women at the table, my mother included, were completely ignoring what was happening outside. Chris’s mom had gone back to eating like there was nothing wrong.
I was sick to my stomach. What the hell had we walked into? This was a fucking cult, religious extremism taking away any rational thought. When Chris had said that there were different interpretations of Leviticus, his mother had lost it. There was nothing right nor normal about her behavior, and absolutely nothing Christian about his father’s or brothers’ actions. I flicked my gaze to the living room window and saw a collection of faces in the window. Trixie held her cell phone up and nodded at me and young Josh spoke into his.
There was a commotion inside, but I turned away, focusing my energy on Chris. I needed to get him help, but I wasn’t leaving him, and my cell phone was inside. I examined his face. It was swollen and bleeding, his eye already bruising and his lip oozing blood down his cheek.
“Chris, hon, please wake up,” I begged, my eyes filling with tears and dripping down onto his face. I smoothed his hair back from his forehead, picked up a handful of icy snow, and held it to his cheek.
Hegroaned and blinked his eyes open, then winced and slipped them closed again.
“Chris, no. Stay with me,” I encouraged, my voice barely a whisper. “Please, hon.”
He reached for my hand and grasped it tight.
“I need to get you up. We need to leave.” I looked around, desperate for a way out of this nightmare, but I couldn’t see one. I couldn’t risk moving Chris, not when they’d been kicking his ribs and groin and hitting him in the face. I couldn’t hold his weight up. If he collapsed, he could hurt himself more on the way down.
“Just a minute,” he slurred, his grip loosening on my arm.
“Chris,” I sobbed. “Please.” I didn’t even know what I was asking for, but I knew I needed him to be okay.
“Help, please,” I screamed. “Call 911. I need an ambulance.”
Silence met my ears, and I screamed again, over and over until my voice was hoarse. Tears streamed down my cheeks and were beginning to freeze as the weather began to seep through my clothes. My jeans were soaked. My fingers and toes were numb. Chris shivered, and I screamed again, begging for help.
Then I heard sirens. I slumped forward, resting my head gently against Chris’s chest and sobbed. Lights shone over the top of the low fence, and I screamed for them to come into the backyard.
The next few minutes were a blur. Ambulance officers walked into the backyard, took one look at Chris beaten and bruised on the ground and sprang into action. In a heartbeat, he was wrapped in a silver foil blanket and being loaded into the ambulance.
A police officer walked outside with our coats and my bag. “Ma’am, I believe these are yours.”
I choked out a cry and nodded. “Yes.”
“Is that your husband?” I nodded, and the police officer said, “We’ll need a statement from both of you as to what happened here today.”
“Those bastards beat the shit out of him, that’s what happened,” I cried. “His father and three brothers. Peter, David, James, and Luke Minns.”
“Okay. The ambulance is ready to transport your husband to hospital. We’re headed there after we get everyone’s statements here.”
I lowered my voice so only the officer could hear. “Confiscate Trixie’s phone. I think she recorded it.”
He nodded once, his eyes telling me more than his words. “Thanks for the tip.”
I looked at the window where the kids were gathered, looking stricken. Some of them were crying. Others had their arms around their cousins. All of them except Trixie. She was shouting at her father, the disgust written in her expression as clear as day.
I limped over to the ambulance and gratefully accepted a foil blanket around my shoulders as I sat down in the passenger seat at Chris’s head. I reached for him, brushing his hair back gently, and the doors slammed closed.
“We never have to see them again, hon. I’ll fucking maim them if they try to get close to you again.”
***
Chris had been in triage for two hours, getting X-rays and an MRI done. When I’d told the nurse he was a pro-hockey player, he informed the attending doctor, and they pulled out all stops. I wasn’t sure whether it was the guaranteed good insurance or the fear of a lawsuit if they fucked up his career by a failure to diagnose something, but they insisted on carrying out every possible test. I was appreciative, but I was desperate to see him.
I couldn’t stop crying. I was overwhelmed, my emotions in tatters. All I could picture was Chris’s bleeding and bruised face, his labored breathing, and his pained groans every time he tried to move. I pulled the blanket the nurse had given me tighter around my shoulders and tried to quell my shivering. The scrubs I was wearing weren’t warm enough, but my own clothes were soaking wet. The nurse had said something about shock too. He gave me a list of things to look out for. I was supposed to let him know if I started to feel any of them, but I couldn’t even remember what they were, and I hadn’t seen him since they’d taken Chris behind the emergency room doors.