I laid in bed, listening for any sounds my dad would make. I heard him stumble into the house about fifteen minutes ago, but then it got quiet. I hoped he had just passed out somewhere, but I wasn’t brave enough to go check. When he got like this, it was best to stay locked up in my room. Sometimes, I thought about what it would be like if he just passed out and didn’t wake up, but then I imagined being the one to find him. I had already seen my mother dead in her chair. I didn’t want to find my father dead also. I didn’t think I could handle that.
Something crashed in the other room, followed by the sound of breaking glass. I closed my eyes and tried to block it out.
“Lorelei!” he shouted. I heard his heavy footsteps rambling toward my room and I stared at the door. “Lorelei!”
The doorknob jiggled, but didn’t open. I had Callum install a lock on my door when I told him how bad Dad was getting when he was drunk. He looked at me sadly, but there wasn’t much he could do. He was only ten years older than me, and he had his own problems to deal with. I was just happy that he did this small thing for me.
“Lorelei!” he shouted again. I buried my face in the covers and pretended I wasn’t here. “Girl, get out here. I’m bleeding all over the fucking place!”
My eyes flew open and I stared at the door. He was bleeding. What if I didn’t go out there? Would he bleed out all over the floor? I could just hide in here and wait for him to pass out…
Throwing off my covers, I carefully made my way over to the door and listened for him on the other side. When I didn’t hear anything, I unlocked the door and cracked it just an inch. It flew open, sending me flying backward into my dresser. The air gushed out of me, and my lungs seized in fear. He walked in, towering over me as he held his hand.
“The next time I fucking call you, you’d better answer the fucking door! Now stitch me up.”
I nodded quickly and scrambled to my feet, running for the bathroom to get whatever I could find to patch him up. I didn’t see anything but bandaids, which wouldn’t help me very much. I found a needle and thread in my mother’s sewing box and then went into the kitchen and grabbed another bottle of whiskey off the counter. The remnants of the last one were all over the floor.
“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” my father spat.
“I h-have to pour it over your wound so it doesn’t get infected.”
He glared at me, but took a seat at the table, resting his hand on the table. With shaky hands, I threaded the needle and prepared to get to work. I had no idea what I was doing, but I had to try if I didn’t want to get beaten to death. Uncapping the whiskey, I poured some over the wound and he hissed, yanking his hand away. I flinched back, sure that he was going to hit me, but it never came. Peeking at him through half-closed eyes, I took a deep breath and began.
I worked as quickly as I could, but I could feel his anger increasing by the minute. In my haste to finish, the needle slipped from my grasp and stabbed his palm. I didn’t even have time to move. His fist slammed against my face, knocking me out of my chair. Despite his drunken state, he was stronger than ever and if I didn’t get out of the house, I might not be alive in the morning.
I scrambled across the kitchen floor, the shards of glass digging into my hands and knees as I tried to reach the door. I stood and jerked the back door open, ready to run out into the night when he grabbed my hair and yanked me back. I screamed loudly, terrified that this was the last time I would step foot outside the house. He pulled me back inside as I clawed at the door frame trying to grab onto anything to stop me from being dragged back inside. I screamed again, but when he tossed me into the cabinets, my screams stopped and I laid there, terrified and shaking.
I saw the first boot coming at my stomach and tried to curl into myself, but I was too late. The second time hurt even more, but it was the third kick that had me close to blacking out. I took a quick second to pray that my death was quick and I wouldn’t feel any more pain. At least it would all be over.
But it never came. A loud thud next to me had me prying my eyes open. My father laid next to me, his eyes wide open, staring sightlessly at me. I shoved myself up, scooting away from him and then finally looked up. Matthew stood there, stone-faced and glaring at my father. A cast iron skillet hung in his hand and he was breathing hard. When he finally looked at me, his face softened and he knelt down beside me.
“Are you okay?”
I couldn’t say anything. My whole body hurt and my thoughts were all jumbled. Matthew had just killed for me. He had killed my father, and now the police would come. They would take him away from me. He was my only friend, the only person in the world that really cared about me.
“What are we going to do?” I asked, tears leaking down my face.
He grabbed me and pulled me into his arms. I ignored the pain in my stomach and clung to him
