Safety Pin | Luke Hemmings' Little Sister (COMPLETED)

20 | Broken Home

"Rya, go upstairs," mum instructs sternly. I stare at her, knowing another fight is coming.

"Liz, please, let me talk to her," he says. He actually sounds sober tonight, which is somewhat comforting. But mum seems to ignore the question as she squeezes my hand reassuringly.

"Go upstairs, sweetie." I bite my lip worriedly, hurrying up the steps.

Dad follows mum down the hall, and I stay on the stairs - out of sight - for a moment, wanting to hear what they say. Are they going argue about me?

"What took you so long to sober up? We are a family, after all," mum huffs harshly.

"I'm back now, that's what matters," he tries to reason.

"Back my ass! And what were you doing the past two days? Screwing some other girl?" I flinch at my mother's use of language. I rarely ever hear her talk like that.

"The boys may be out of the house, but we do have a daughter, Andrew," she scoffs.

And, there it is.

"You don't think I know that? She's the reason I came back!"

"Oh, just for her? What about me? What about the boys?"

"Why do you have to make everything so damn complicated?! I'm back now, why do you have to ruin that?"

By now, I have my knees to my chest and I'm covering my ears. Yet I remain on the stairs, listening to them argue.

"Because no matter what I do, you always end up drinking!"

"No mater what you do?! I bust my ass off for this family, but you could care less. You know, we could be happy, just you and me alone in retirement, enjoying ourselves, but we had to go ahead and have a fourth child!"

The house is deadly quiet, and I gasp. I feel the lump rising in my throat, and I get to my feet, quickly scurrying up to my room. I close the door and lock it, leaning against it. My heart is racing. The room is spinning.

I.
Can't.
Breathe.

My own father doesn't want me.

Of course he doesn't want you, you're the reason their marriage is falling apart.

No, that isn't true. I jump into my bed, pulling the covers over my head. I curl into a ball, letting my tears flow freely. I bring my knees to my chest beneath the covers, hugging them with my arms and rocking back and forth. My parents never wanted me.

For the second time ever in my life, I cry myself to sleep.

—

I wake up the next morning and feel the strange yet familiar feeling of swollen eyes and dried tears on my cheeks. My throat is still a bit tight from crying last night as the memories of my parents' argument flood my memory. I try to push them away, but they won't budge.

We could be happy, but you had to go and have a fourth child!

The words are permanently engraved into my brain as I take my shower. They repeat in my head as I brush my hair and pull it back, and as I put on a plain black tank top and ripped jean shorts.