Page 2 of Tempting Little Thief

“Fuck!” I hurry down the stairs.

She ran outside.

Weneverrun outside when he’s like this—or after—but then again, it’s never lasted this long before.

My stomach leaps into my throat as the living room comes into view.

The broken glass littering the floor mocks me, the bloodstains on the shitty shag carpet a constant reminder, as if I fucking need one, of what he’s capable of doing to her, to me.

My mother hugs the now broken frame of the door, cowering against it, and the moment she hears me coming, she attempts to keep me from stepping through, but I shove her away, breaking free when her hand darts out, attempting to latch on to my wrist.

Horror slams into me, and I jerk to a stop on the porch.

My sister’s face is even more swollen now, blood seeping from the side of her head where he pistol-whipped her before tying me up, the bullet meant for her still buried in my flesh. She struggles to keep her eyes open, her body growing limp at our father’s side as he drags her back toward the house by the hair.

I have to get to her.

I have to free her.

Iwillsave her.

He spots me and comes to a halt, eyes flicking over my shoulder.

And then my mother’s body is crashing into me from behind, knocking me unsteady. She’s hysterical, afraid for the man she loves more than her children and stumbles. With a slight nudge of my elbow, she tumbles into the dirt, scrambling back and hiding behind a flowerpot when my father pulls the trigger of the gun gripped in his left hand. The harsh “pap” rattles in the trees, the bullet burying itself into the dirt near his feet.

“Son, stop this right now! You’re bleeding everywhere! Get back inside before someone sees!” she cries, begging, yet again, for us, the victims, to “be good” and take the fucking whipping we “deserve.”

Of course I’m fucking bleeding. I came home to chaos, saw a gun pointed at my sister’s head, and with the look of acceptance in her eyes, I jumped in front of her just before he pulled the trigger.

Where I fucked up was turning to see if my sister was okay and trying to check the wound on the side of her head from his beating. He capitalized on my rookie mistake, tackling me from behind when I wasn’t looking.

I won’t be so foolish now.

But my mother is as dumb as she is pathetic. My dad just shot that same gun in the front fucking yard, where my sister is bleeding and trembling in his hold, her body practically fucking hanging at his feet as if she’s a peasant and he’s a king.

There’s no more “hiding in the house.”

No more “swallowing our screams.”

No more “covering the bruises under our clothes.”

This right here … this is it.

This is the day we dreaded but waited for.

The moment we feared but wished for.

This is the end. His … or ours.

The fist in my sister’s hair tightens, and I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to think of a way to turn this around. To take her place.

She thrashes in his hold, crying, begging, but he keeps dragging her forward toward me.

I step out, curving a bit so I’m no longer in the path of the door but off to its right, my feet now nearly in the center of the yard.

My mom begs me to go inside as she does exactly that, waving all of us in with urgency, but I don’t even look at her. I keep my eyes on the bloodshot ones staring right at me.

“You think you’re tough, kid?” He waves the gun at his side. “Get in the goddamn house. Now.”

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