Page 17 of Claiming What's Mine

“You'll see.” Blue gave me smile, turning and skipping off through the tall grass. Reaching her front porch, she waved.

Waving back, I watched her as she disappeared inside. My eyes moved over the windows, catching her father as he glared down at me from the big picture window. There was a look in his eyes, one that I wouldn't expect from a man of the lord, but was perfectly acceptable of a father looking out for his daughter.

Our eyes connected, and it was easy to see that he wasn't happy his little girl was hanging out with the town bad boy. Dropping my eyes to the ground, I stuffed my hands into my pockets, and kicked the dirt as I followed the edge of her property, dipping into the tree line once I was out of view of her house.

Through the thick forest, I climbed over and through bushes, some with long sharp thorns and others that just tickled the skin of my shins. I could see the lights of my house, so I stopped and listened.

Everything sounded quiet, the silence so thick I could feel it climb down my neck and back. Silence might be a good thing to some, it might even mean that all was well behind those walls. I wasn't so at ease with it.

Silence could mean a lot of things at my house. None of which were ever good.

Walking into the backyard, I peeked in the window by the side door, but I couldn't see anything. Listening cautiously, all I could hear were crickets. Crickets by the door, crickets under the house, crickets chirping all around me.

Slowly, I pulled the storm door open, sticking my head in and looking around. There was a half eaten loaf of Italian bread on the stove, and empty beer bottles scattered over the counter. Some were tipped over, spilling out the backwash and remnants onto the linoleum floor.

I could smell them from where I stood. The grainy scent of yeast turned my stomach. Swallowing the vomit that crept up the back of my throat, I took a step into the house.

Making sure I set my foot down on one of the wood planks that didn't creak, I held the door as it shut so it didn't slam. Stepping on the tips of my toes, I carefully walked through the kitchen and started for the stairs.

Almost there, almost there, a few more steps—

I didn't make it. . .

In one quick swoop, my father grabbed the collar of my shirt and yanked me backwards. “Where ya been, boy?” I smelled his breath first, the hot stench of stale beer and cigarettes. “You been out with that little rich girl again?”

“Why?” I asked, tensing up my muscles as I felt his nails scrape the back of my neck. “What do you care?”

“What do I care? You were suppose to do your chores.” His lips grazed the curve of my ear as he swayed in his drunken-stooper.

“I did them this morning.”

Jerking me back, he clutched my shirt harder, pulling me in closer. “You ain't getting smart with me, are ya, boy?”

“No.” Breathing in slowly through my nose, I caught a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of my eyes.

Shit, Bethany.

My little sister was sitting at the top of the stairs, positioned behind the sharp edge of the wall. I could only see one of her eyes and a little bit of her hair as she leaned over.

Letting out a deep breath, my father pressed his cheek to mine. “Sounds like you're getting smart with me. Sounds like you think you're in charge.”

“Bethany's up, Dad.”

“I don't give a shit. This isn't about her, it's about you. I'm in charge here—me, and only me. Not you. If I say you didn't finish your fucking chores, then you didn't finish them.” Curling his fingers around my neck, he squeezed firmly. “You hear me? You understand what I'm telling you?”

“Go to your room, Beth.” I tried to speak calmly, making sure my voice didn't shake or grow too cold. “Go on, it's alright.”

My eyes connected with hers, her big brown eyes blinked once as she ducked back, barely visible in her hiding spot. She didn't look like she was about to cry, she looked like she was frozen with fear.

“Dad—”

SMACK

His hand whipped across the back of my head as he threw me forward. Stumbling, I gripped my skull as I turned to face him. I didn't say another word, because at that point it didn't matter, he wasn't going to hear me.

Stalking forward, my father threw slaps and punches, his large, abrasive hands flying through the air and landing in any place he could strike. He wasn't exactly steady on his feet, his steps were wobbly and uneven, his body rocking as he tried to keep his balance. But his fists worked fine, his muscles still strong and rigid.

I didn't fight him back, there was no point. I was too small to do anything, and if I tried, it would only make him more ticked off, causing him to strike harder and with more precision.

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