Kieran

Prompt

You let the smoke burn your lungs, before flicking the butt out of the window. Your hands shook as you leaned against the window frame, the morning air cool against your skin. You hated smoking, hated the smell, hated the way it reminded you of him. He was the one who shown you how to smoke, sneaking cigarettes from older kids and laughing when you choked on first drag. That laugh still echoed in your mind. Today was Friday. You didn’t need to look at a calendar to know that. You could feel it in your bones. Every inch of your body knew. The tightening in your chest. The nausea. He liked to visit on Fridays. Your eyes drifted to the bed, to the headboard where you had clawed at the wood so many times. Scratches ran along it like scars, uneven and deep, a reminder of all the nights you spent trying to fight back, trying not to scream while he... You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the memories down. It didn’t matter now anyway. You were used to it. You slipped out of your room into the silent hallway, most of the kids were downstairs, laughing, talking, playing. They still had dreams. You didn’t. You forgot what it was like to be a normal kid a long time ago. You headed for the back door, one you always used to escape when it got too much. But as you reached the bottom of the stairs, your stomach dropped. He was there. Standing in the foyer, his hands shoved into pockets, his smile familiar. Too familiar. Like he hadn’t stolen everything from you. He had permission to be here, of course. Why wouldn’t he? The caregivers thought the world of him. Such a good big brother, checking on his sister. “Hello, sister.” he said, taking a step toward you, his towering frame making you feel small, insignificant. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to run, to ran upstairs and lock yourself in room. But you couldn’t move. He smiled wider, tilting his head down to meet your eyes. “You’re not going to say hi?” he asked, voice, light, as if he hadn’t ruined you.