EVELYN

I sat on the side of my bed, gazing at the shards of shattered glass that were scattered near the window. The rough shards sparkled softly in the dim light in my room. Even though the silence in my heart was deep, it didn't completely escape interruptions. The sound of footfall outside my door. A sluggish and relentless pace, pounding against my ears. It was Dave. Though he had been knocking for what felt like forever, but I chose not to open the door.

He was the last person I wanted to see, the very thought of him making my skin crawl. I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to scream for him to leave. He wouldn’t. Dave never did anything unless it was on his terms and I knew that better than anyone.

A knock on the door finally came, softer this time. For a moment, I thought it was him again, but the voice that followed made my chest tighten.

“Angel,” Dad called gently.

I hesitated but finally got up to let him in. As soon as he stepped inside, guilt enveloped around him in waves, his eyes scanning my bruised face. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin. That heavy silence between us made everything worse because I knew Dad blamed himself.

“You okay, Angel?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m good, Dad,” I replied, avoiding his eyes. I didn’t dare ask him how he was doing, I couldn’t. There was a tightness in my chest that made it impossible to form words beyond those three. The feeling of my shame, my choices, and everything I’d endured made it impossible to meet his gaze.

Dad’s eyes shifted to the broken window. “What happened here?” he asked, frowning.

Before I could answer, the door creaked open, and Dave walked in like he owned the room. A first aid box dangled from one hand, with his movements calculated. He strolled in, flashing the kind of easygoing smile that made him look innocent to anyone who didn’t know better.

Dad's expression changed instantly, oblivious to the reality. "I'll leave your brother with you to clean those bruises," he said with a shrug, entirely oblivious to the fact that the exact person he confided in was the one who had caused them.

As I watched Dad leave the room, I felt sick to my stomach. The door softly clicked shut behind him. This was a moment when I wished he had stayed. His presence would have been a thin shield against what I knew was coming.

Dave sat down next to me and opened the first aid kit without rushing. He took out some cotton balls and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. A faint smell of sanitizer filled the room. He dipped the cotton into the liquid without saying a word. The sound of it soaking filled the room with quiet.

When he reached out to touch my face, I flinched. His fingers felt cold and every brush of the cotton against my skin felt like a reminder of the power he had taken from me. His hands moved with practiced ease, but there was nothing comforting about it.

His voice finally broke the silence. “This might sting,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been amusement.

Sting didn’t even begin to cover it. As he dabbed at the bruises on my neck and face, I wanted to recoil, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch again. His touch felt wrong, like reptiles slithering across my skin, leaving trails of unease in their wake.

I remained motionless with my mind racing as he continued his work. How did things get to this point? The question is how could I have let someone who was supposed to be my brother and my guardian become the cause of so much suffering for me and bring the best pleasure for me as well?

Dad’s footsteps finally faded down the hall, leaving us in stifling silence. And then, as if the act he had put on for Dad was a switch he could turn off, Dave’s demeanor changed. The caring façade melted away, replaced by something darker, something that made the air in the room feel heavier.

He traced his fingers down my arm, his touch light but invasive. “I’m really sorry, Evie,” he said, his voice low. “You know I’d never want to hurt you.”

I didn’t respond. What was I supposed to say? That I forgave him? That I could overlook everything because he claimed he didn’t mean it?

His hand moved to mine, and I pulled away instinctively, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he trailed his fingers up to my shoulder, his eyes locking onto mine. “You know I really love you, Evie. I’ve never done anything to make you doubt that.” His voice softened, but the edge in it was unmistakable. “You caused all of this by lying to me.”

His words sliced through me, each one dripping with manipulation. The look in his eyes was almost convincing and remorseful but I knew better. No matter how sorry he claimed to be, no matter how much he insisted he loved me, it didn’t erase the truth.

“Get your hands off me,” I snapped, my voice sharp as I shoved his hand away.

His face shook for a split second, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the calm mask he always wore. He slowly stood up and brushed imagined dust off his pants. He looked at me one last time before looking at the window. Of course, it was all thanks to him.

But as I sat there, my voice still ringing between us, something else crystallized too— a realization that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as powerless as he'd made me believe.

Dave's jaw clenched at my defiance. He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. "You're getting brave sister, aren't you?" The words came out soft, almost gentle, but I knew that tone. It was the same one he used right before things got worse. "Remember what happened last time you tried to stand up to me?"

I did remember. The memory of that night was seared into my mind like a brand. But something was different now. Maybe it was the way the morning light streamed through the broken window, or maybe it was the growing certainty that this couldn't go on forever.

"I'm not afraid of you anymore," I lied, my voice steadier than I felt. The trembling in my hands betrayed me, but I kept my gaze locked on his.

He laughed, a sound that used to bring peace to my heart and made me feel better, but now it just rubbed salt in my wound. "We both know that's not true, Evie." I made a conscious effort to resist the temptation to cringe as his fingers touched the edge of my jaw. "You're shaking like a leaf, sister."

The first aid kit lay forgotten between us, the antiseptic's sharp smell mixing with the stale air of my room. Outside, a car door slammed, and I knew Dad was leaving for work. The sound of his departure felt like a door closing on my last chance of escape.

"I'm calling Mom," I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. It was the one threat I'd never dared to make before.

Dave's hand froze against my skin. Our mom works long hours at work. She's in the military. She's most times busy and doesn't come home every day like other moms. In a good month, twice a month, and dad is left with the responsibility of raising two kids. She'd tried to take me with her, but Dave had convinced everyone it would be better if I stayed. Now I understood why.

"You wouldn't," he said, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "She too busy, remember? She doesn't care about you. I'm the only one who's always been here."

"Being here isn't the same as caring," I shot back, finding strength in his momentary weakness. "You've made sure I had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. That's not love, Dave. That's control."

He stood up abruptly, knocking the first aid kit to the floor. Cotton balls scattered across the tiles like snowflakes, and the bottle of antiseptic rolled under my bed. "You're confused," he said, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "Everything I've done has been to protect you."

"Protect me?" I laughed, the sound harsh and foreign to my own ears. "Is that what you call this?" I gestured to my bruised face, to the broken window, to the mess he'd made of my life.

For a moment, something like genuine remorse flashed across his features. But it was quickly replaced by that calculated calmness I knew so well. He reached for his phone, pulling it from his pocket with deliberate slowness.

"Go ahead," he said, holding it out to me. "Call her. Tell her everything. But remember, Evie, who's going to believe you? Who's going to believe that your perfect brother, the one who’s ready to give up his own life to help you, could do anything wrong?"

The worst part was, he was right. Dave had spent years crafting his image as the devoted older brother, the stand-in parent who'd stepped up when Mom was too busy. Even Dad, who lived under the same roof, couldn't see through the façade. How could anyone else?

I lost. “Fuck,” I screamed.