The Archer and The Airship

Chapter Thirty

30. Begin Again

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  She bolted up the stairs and into the house, the screen door slamming closed behind her with a hard smack. Her grandmother's once beautiful, southern charm home was now tainted with the smell of his cigars, the empty whiskey bottles carelessly thrown around the midcentury furniture.
"The hell, girl?" his voice boomed from the kitchen, heavy boots stomping out and down the hallway. She stood there, frozen in the entryway, shaking with fear and anger. She couldn't tell which was stronger anymore.
"Where is she?" she willed her voice to stay even.
He shook his wrinkled, red tinged head at her, sweat dripping down his face and into his stubbly salt and pepper beard.
"Who?" he scoffed.
"You know who the hell I'm talkin' about," she snapped.
"You better watch your mouth," he growled, stepping forward as he pointed a thick sausage finger at her. His hand twitched towards his belt and she felt her stomach drop, her knees weaken. She forced herself to not show him any of these signs.
"And if you mean your little girlfriend," he smirked. "I truly don't know what the hell you're talkin' about." He turned away from her, dismissing the allegations.
"I don't believe you," she seethed.
He whipped around to face her again and lurched forward , a hand raised to slap or grab, she didn't care. For the first time, she fought back.
She ducked under his outstretched arm to let him drunkenly stumble into the door, cracking his nose against the frame. She considered hitting him, let the thought soak in her brain. She hesitated.. a second too long.
He was faster now, anger fueling his reflexes. He turned and snatched the curls at the nape of her neck in his fingers, pulling sharply. She yelped in pain, pins and needles rippling over her head. She threw a fist out towards him and her wrist connected with his forearm, already preparing to block her hit. She was so weak, so small. And he wasn't.
He threw her down to the hardwood floors, face first. She had just enough time to block her fall with her arms.
He leaned over her, one leg on each side, and bent down until she could feel his hot, sticky breath on her skin.
"Remember who you're talkin' to, little girl," he hissed. "And as for your girl, that little slut's probably dead in a ditch somewhere. Get over it."
He stomped his boots on either side of her face, hard enough for her to flinch and he scoffed a laugh, stomping away back to the kitchen.
Back to whatever drink he had.
She laid there for a moment, face down, letting a few tears shed in the safety of her arms.

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Zepp awoke to a soft knock on her bedroom door. Her eyes burst open and her heart rate accelerated. Whats wrong? Whats happening? she thought as she scrambled out of bed and threw open the door.

There stood Carl, a confused expression spread across his face, bouncing Judith in one arm and holding a bowl of cereal in another. "Good morning?" he questioned, holding out the bowl to her.