Brandon's POV
I walked up to the old house as usual. I looked down the street, the late afternoon breeze passes me. I take a breath, knowing whats going to happen once I walk into that house. Imagine
what he's going to say. Or even worse, do.
I shook my had and unlock the door. I walk in to the house. I am waiting for the reassurance that my dad is home. I here nothing. I relax a little, and stuff the care keys in my pocket. I walk farther in, and realize that the only light on in the house is the one in the kitchen. I see the back of my dads head, and hear the cutting of a knife.
"You came home from school late," he says sternly.
"Well yes-I was helping out a new friend," I say timidly.
"I'll need your car keys," he replies.
"For being late from school? Really?" I press.
He sets down the knife gently, but I knew in his mind he was going to explode. He turns and glares at me. "I know what you did."
"W-what?" I stutter.
"Don't think you fooled me," he laughs deviously. "I know you took some money out from the savings in the basement. I'm not stupid. What exactly did you spend it on?"
I now look down. My palms were getting sweaty, and my mouth was dry. "The-the car," I mutter.
He stares at me. "The car," I nod. "I'm sure you got in an accident, didn't you." I don't say anything. "Well?" He raises his voice.
"Yes," I croak. "I didn't want you to be mad at me."
"I'm not mad, Brandon," he says gently. "But you know I have to act like a parent," he starts coming towards me, and I know what's going to happen. I take a step back. He stops.
"Well where are you going?" He says gritting his teeth. He grabs my arm and squeezes it hard. "You're not off the hook," he yells. I look at him horrified as I notice the pain now in my eye. I was in a flash on the tile floor.
"Please," I whimper, sounding like a coward.
My own father, now smiling, was attacking me, I was a coward. A complete coward. My mind races back to when he would never do this. When I was a little kid. When my mother was alive. When my sister was alive. Oh my sister. He thinks it's my fault she died. This is why he does this to me. It's been this way since that day. I was only eleven. I wish my mother was still here. I really wish she was.
I realized he had stopped kicking me, and I was on the floor whimpering.
"Oh get up. That didn't hurt at all," My dad growls. I scramble off the floor and try as fast as I can to get to my room. I wish I could just lock myself in my room. I reach the door and lock it tight. I realize I'm panting, and I try to even out my breath, but all I do is collapse onto the floor. Why does it have to be me? I know I shouldn't keep quiet about it. I remember the advice I gave Annie today. How I wish I could actually do it. I was very close to telling her my story.
I heave myself up and into the bathroom. The white tile is cold on my bare feet. The light flickers on and I stare at myself in the cracked mirror. The one my dad smashed when I was fourteen and had a D on my report card.
I saw my reflection in the mirror. Great, a new scar. My lip was cut up, and I had a black eye. I took off my shirt and examined the rest of my body. There were purple marks all on me now. I touched the one on my neck, and winced.
I threw my shirt back on, carefully, and sat on my bed. I looked around my room.
The walls were dark blue, and my bed was unmade. My lacrosse stick sat in one of the corners next to my desk and laptop. There was a door to my tiny bathroom, and that was about it. It wasn't anything special. But it was the only place I could stay while hiding.
