I awaken to the angry screams of my deadbeat father. My legs throw themselves out from underneath my blood red velvet sheets and drag their way into the kitchen. During the process I step pass my drunken donor and over my abused mother lying on the birch wood floor.This is the norm for me, me and my brother's lives progress theirselves forward inside this house of unspeakable horrors.
My pair of dull emerald's lock onto his miserable seventeen year old face, he doesn't so much as glance towards me. He repeatedly shoves his silver spoon piled with Cheerios into his grim liped mouth. He doesn't look his age at all, every sign in his boyish face shows the appearance of a middle aged man. The way his jaw is constantly clenched in helplessness and frustration, almost similar to a natural feature. His forehead is creased in concentration that later evolves into stress. He has the jaded blue eyes of a man who's seen far too much, who only absorbs all of the cruel occurances in life. His dark chocolate hair reveals hints of small grey strands that are obviously caused by stressing abnormally.
Pain suddenly jolts through my neck as I feel my father's huge stubby hands lock themselves tightly around it. He spins me around to face him and whips his open palm across my hollow left cheek. "I thought I told you to stop your damn daydreamin bitch!" he shrieks in my face. I mumble a swift apology and before I know it my brother is dragging me out the front door by the sleeve of my grey batman sweatshirt.
I stop allowing him to pull me when we reach the end of our neighbourhood and the start of the highway as my legs cave in on me. I don't cry, I never cry anymore. All I do is crush the reddish leaves between my ivory fingers as I stare at the moving traffic and seriously consider jumping right in the center of it. Death must certainly be simpler than this hell.
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, Brinna," my brother sighs as he sinks beside me.
I feel him wrap his arms around my torso as I inhale his scent that was a mix of mens shampoo, cinnamon and something I'd never been able to place before in the seven years that I'd known him. The scent just screamed his name in repetitive motion, almost like a broken record.
"But I'm already dead inside, Alex," I mumble faintly against his black shirt.