Fed Up

"Lenea, help me please!" He stood in front of me with frustration. I felt helpless. I wanted to take his hand and just tell him to count to ten, or ten thousand. I understand how nerve wracking it is to deal with my mother on a friday night; especially if she's exceptionally emotional. 

"Get out of her face!" She screamed and her hand flew up and made contact with his face. He was caught of guard and fell in the direction of the smack. He jumped back up swiftly and tackled her to the ground. 

I jumped from the couch and pulled him off her, pushed him back, calmed him down, then went to help her up from the floor. She tried to grab a window that was lying up against the wall, but I snatched it from her and put it back. She started to complain about her arm, while clutching at her heart. 

She picked up the phone and began to speak; I never saw her dial any number. 

"Come and get him! He threw me on the ground! If ya'll don't come and finish it, then I will." 

She hang up the phone. They carried on in an argument. She constantly told him to get out, and assured her that he planned on leaving. The next morning, Bobby left, vowing never to come back again.