I dart through my house on silent feet. The muffled yelling of my father comes from the living room, but I know I won’t be able to get closer than the kitchen without risking getting caught. My father has hawk eyes, made even sharper by the alcohol he is probably drinking and the cigarettes he is probably smoking. I settle behind the island, reminding myself to remain quiet. I happen to like my head attached to my shoulders. I head the soft voice of my mother trying to defend herself, then the unmistakable slap of skin on skin. I hardly flinch; the sound has become a regular in my broken household.

“Callum! Get your ass down here!” My father bellows for my older brother. He’s 18, but my father has forbidden him to move out, saying he needs to take care of the family. I hear his reluctant footsteps down the steps, slowly plodding, wasting time. He passes by the kitchen and I shrink even smaller, trying to avoid his downward stare. I know he sees me, because a smile lights up his features, bringing out the Callum I remember. He says nothing, doesn’t break his stride, and I remain hidden from the wrath of my father.

“Felicity!” One of my sisters, this one only twelve and a half. “Get me another beer!” her feet come at a much faster pace than those of Callum. Tiny pale hands yank at our fridge handle, nearly snapping it. Harried fingers sweep aside milk and juice and coke to find the beer at the back. Practiced wrists flip the top off, where it spins like a top and settles on the floor. Adept feet trace the familiar path to living room. Fearful eyes watch the bottle, making sure not to spill a drop. I press myself against the island. How cowardly I am. Letting my baby sister face his anger while I hide here in the safety of the oven light. His angry shout echoes and the slapping sound is heard again. Felicity’s tiny feet walk back through the kitchen, her route punctuated by drops of water. Tears. I dart out and grab her shirt sleeve, slipping my hand over her mouth to stop her screams. I wipe her tears dry, but I don’t dare whisper soothing words to her. Instead, I hold her in my lap and rock her gently. She's nearly too big to fit into my sixteen-year-old lap, but I do it anyways.

“Hey! Brats!” my father likes to call us names instead of our names. He says there's too many of us. “Get down here!” my father’s voice echoes once again, and we reluctantly crawl out from behind the island. Our three year old brother comes racing up the stairs from the basement, and nearly trips on thin air. I catch him before he face plants, and the three of us walk into the living room, where Callum sits, staring defiantly at my father. Seventeen year old Maria and six month old Alice wait for us, Alice cooing innocently. Without breaking his gaze, Callum pulls James onto his lap, wrapping his arms protectively around his little torso. Felicity and I sit tentatively on the edge of the worn couch, ready to bolt at any moment.

My father yells some more, something about us not respecting his position as head of the house. I'm not really listening. I'm more concerned about the bruises already forming on my mother’s face, and the ones I can see forming through her tattered clothes. It takes all my energy not to walk up to my father and slap him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a bruise forming on the right side of Felicity’s face.

“Hey! Are you brats listening? I've had enough of your attitudes, and I think it’s time you learned a lesson. Julia! Go and get the silver box from the basement.” When I don’t move fast enough, he roars, sending spit flying everywhere. “Now!” I stand up, and, trying to be as brave as Callum, walk away from my father, instead of the panicked run of Felicity and James.

The silver box is easy enough to find, and easier to carry. I don’t dare shake it to find what’s inside, lest my father hear. Knowing him, he would test it on me first.

“Julia! What the f*** is taking so long?” My father throws the curse words around, heedless of James and Alice. I hurry my steps slightly, and hand off the box without looking at him. He makes a big show of getting out a key-taken from his sock, how gross can you get- and unlocking the shiny container. As if in slow motion, he reaches in and pulls out an even shiner shotgun. Without giving us time to react, he aims and pulls the trigger.