Page 169 of Lilah

One telling me good morning. Actually good f-ing morning.

Another one stating my butt better answer him. In other words.

Two more stating unhappy thoughts of me ignoring him. With more choice words, of course.

One telling me he got a case a couple of towns over. That one was five hours ago. In it, he said two choice words.

Another saying that he's back from the town. With one choice word.

And one last one asking if I had eaten yetandstating that I'm going to have a long 'talking to' when I see him again. In a lot of choice words.

I let a little smile onto my face. Before I get the chance to text back, I hear a loud crash downstairs. My smile falls and I look toward my door.

Better now than later.

I open my bedroom door and start down the stairs cautiously. Nearing the bottom of the steps, I look around the living room for him. When I don't see him, I figure he's in the kitchen.

I step down the last step and a loud noise resounds from under my foot when I step on an empty beer can, never seeing it.

I close my eyes, visibly wincing and my heart begins pounding as I hear his footsteps nearing.

I could go back up the stairs but I wouldn't get very far. But maybe he's sober?

What am I saying? He's not sober, it's already nearing four in the afternoon.

My breath holts when he suddenly appears from the corner beside me, his eyes bloodshot from the amount of sleep he probably hasn't been getting.

"Where the hell are you going?" he slurs and I'm terrified to answer, worrisome that my answer won't be the right one no matter what I say.

"I-I was going to the bookstore," I fib nervously, keeping my eyes away from his.

"No you're not," he sneers, "you're going to see thatboy, aren't you?"

"N-No-" he cuts me off.

"Is he treatin' you like you deserve?" he pulls me off the steps by my hood.

"Like a murderer should be treated? Are you cleaning for him and cookin' whatever he wants? He should be smacking you around, you deserve that," he adds and I bite back tears.

"Ishouldlet you go out on these wet roads," his voice turns even more sinister, "maybe then you'll wreck just like you caused your brother to. That way you can get what you caused and you won't give people here any more issues."

I let a single tear fall, too scared to move and wipe it away.

"Why're you crying? You're a pussy of a killer," he growls.

"I didn't kill him," I say so softly I didn't think he heard me at first. And then it registers that I actually said that aloud to him.

I just couldn't take it.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he grabs the front of my sweatshirt and he pulls me up to him. The alcohol on his breath digs into my senses and I hold back a cough.

"Nothing," I whisper, my eyes slightly widened as he forces me to look up at him.

"You said you didn't kill him," if possible he grows twice as irate, "yes you did."

Before I can even blink he does the one thing I thought he'd never do. He jabs his fist right into the side of my face, the class ring he always wears on his middle finger digging into my cheekbone.

I'm sent backward, my head spinning, and my cheek pounding searingly.