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It wasn’t always like this.
Weeknights were mostly okay, with the exception of Thursdays, when Dad got his social welfare money at the post office. The weekends could be sketchy, but I was fantastic at avoiding confrontation with my father. If he was drinking on a weekday, I always made it my business to be home from school, dinner eaten, and locked in my bedroom by six o’clock. If he was drinking at the weekends, I didn’t come out of my room at all.
However, the events of today had thrown me and I had made a fatal mistake. Johnny had thrown me. I let down my guard.
I forgot.
The album played to the end and I flicked it back on, repeating it on a loop. It was only when I heard the sound of the bedroom door next to mine slamming over the music in my ears that I unlocked my coiled muscles.
He was okay.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, I lowered the volume and listened carefully.
Silence.
Pulling out my earbuds, I threw the covers off and climbed out of bed. Tiptoeing over to my bedroom door, I turned the lock and crept into the empty landing. Feeling my way over to Joey’s door in the dark, I grabbed the door handle and slipped inside.
“Joe?” I whispered when my eyes landed on him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxer shorts, holding a wad of toilet paper to his mouth. “You okay?”
“I’m grand, Shan,” he bit out, tone sharp, as he dabbed the tissue against his bottom lip. “You should go to bed.”
“You’re bleeding,” I strangled out, eyes locked on the stream of bloodstained tissue.
“It’s just a busted lip,” he shot back, sounding a little irritated. “Just go back to your room.”
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I must have hovered at his door for a long time because when Joey looked up at me, his expression was resigned. Sighing heavily, he ran a hand through his hair and then patted the mattress beside him. “Come on.”
Bolting over to him, I collapsed on the bed and wrapped my arms around my brother’s neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing holding my world together.
Sometimes I thought that might be true.
“It’s okay, Shan,” he whispered, comforting me.
“I’m sorry,” I choked out, tightening my hold on his neck. Tears spilled over my cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Joe.”
“It’s not your fault, Shan.”
“But I made him mad—”
“Not your fault,” my brother repeated, tone stern.
“I don’t want to be here anymore, Joe.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m sick of feeling scared all the time.”
“I know.” He patted my back and then stood. “One of these days, everything will be better. I promise.”
Walking over to his wardrobe, he pulled open the doors and dragged out the familiar sleeping bag and spare pillows. I didn’t have to ask what he was doing, not when I already knew and it made my heart squeeze tight.
When Joey was finished setting up the makeshift bed on the floor, he dropped onto it. Folding his arms behind his head, he released a heavy sigh. “Turn off the light, will ya, Shan?”
Complying, I leaned over the bed and flicked off his lamp before climbing into his empty bed.
