The Chase ▹ Ashton Irwin

CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE

I woke up to the sound of my father's voice echoing through the walls and my ears. He was at it again, as I have heard these words many times before.

"You think you can escape me?" He said. His voice was full of hatred, and disappointment, and so many other things that I couldn't describe.

"Please..." My mother said at almost a whisper. "...not while my son is in the house."

"Oh, grow up, Anne!" He slurred, followed by a blood curtling laugh. Of course he was drunk, why wouldn't he be? "Do you think I give one flying fuck about that son of yours?"

"Just... Just shut up!" My mother's voice was shaky and she was instantly silenced by God knows what. Thats it, I'm going in. I got up out of my bed and quietly tiptoed out of my bedroom. The dark hall infront of me seemed to grow in length with every second that passed as I just stood there, terrified to be in my own house.

I decided to just go down that stupid hall and do something about this. I could still hear the silent cries, and the angry footsteps of my father going into the other room.

As I walked down the hall of my house, so many thoughts rushed through my undeveloped mind. What could a little kid do about this? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why did I try? I still don't know.

My little heart started to pound as I got closer and closer to the door at the end of the hall. My legs were tired and my head hurt like hell.

"Why?" I heard my mother's quiet voice through the door. By now my hand was rested over the door knob, but I didn't dare twist it.

"Why what?" My father's voice replied. His tone of voice was as if he wasn't effected by the way he was acting.

It was always like that. It was always fucking like that. Every single night, every single day, he was fine. He even seemed happy, at times. It was as if he didn't care about what a monster he was. It made me sick. It makes me absolutely sick to my stomach.

"Why do you do this." There was so question in her voice.

"Why do you think?" Was his answer.

Just go in there and stop him. A voice said in my head.

You can't do that, you're just a kid. Another voice retorted.

"I don't know, Brandon." She said, her voice still low. "I really don't know."

"Think about all the mistakes you've made." He slurred.

"You know I'm getting help with that..." her voice trailed off. What was she talking about this time?

"I'm not talking about that." He spat. I held in the breath I was in the middle of taking.

"Don't you fucking dare say it." She said after a pause that seemed to be a year of agonizing silence. Chokes of tears interrupted her words. "He has nothing to do with any of this."

My heart sank and I took a step back from the door, because I knew exactly who they were talking about.

"HE HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THIS!" He yelled, another slam on the wall.

"NO HE DOESN'T!" My mother cried out.

"Its all his fault-"

I took another step back.

"-It will always be his fault-"

Another step back.

"-And you know it, too."

Another step back.

"He's six years old." My mother whispered.

With that, I threw my hands over my ears, and I ran as fast as my stumbling legs could take me. The hallway was even longer than before, and I thought I would never see the end of it. I pushed my door open, and shut it softly, so no one would know I was awake. I hopped up onto my bed, and I cried. I cried silent, dreadful tears, because whats the point of crying out loud if no one was there to rescue me? It didn't make sense to me, and it never will. I heard more yells, and slams, and...