The slamming door rips through the silence like a gunshot, jolting me awake. My heart slams against my ribs as the sound reverberates through walls so thin they might as well be paper. The familiar surge of adrenaline floods my system—a well-practiced dance with fear that leaves my fingertips tingling and my mouth desert-dry. His voice cuts through next, each word slurred and venomous, crashing together in a violent symphony of anger and something stronger than just whiskey.

Coke, maybe. Or pills.

These days, it's harder to tell what demon is riding him.

Mom's voice follows—soft, pleading, desperate. The sound makes my teeth ache. How many times have I heard this same scene play out, like some sick theatrical performance where we all know our parts but can't escape the stage?

The clock on my nightstand reads 01:58 AM, its red digits burning into my retinas like a countdown to chaos.

A wave of relief washes over me as I remember the one blessing in this nightmare: Jake isn't here.

My little brother's safe at training camp, chasing his dreams far from this hellhole. The thought gives me some form of peace, even as bile burns the back of my throat and my pulse thunders in my ears.

Jake—the kid who still believes in heroes. Who sees Scott as some kind of mythical father figure, straight out of those movies where dads teach their sons to throw perfect spirals and give sage advice about life.

Jake never saw the bruises blooming across Mom’s skin, never noticed how her hands trembled while pouring his cereal, never caught the way her eyes would dart to the nearest exit whenever Scott’s voice rose above a whisper.

The memory of us—the last time we felt like brothers—hits me out of nowhere. Teaching Jake to skateboard when he was ten. His determined little face scrunched up after each fall, tears threatening but never falling because he wanted to be “tough like his big brother.” The scrapes on his knees were battle wounds, his persistence a shield against failure.

“One more time, Jake,” I’d said, steadying the board beneath his feet, my hands firm on his shoulders. “I’m right here. I won’t let you fall.”

When he finally got it, the triumph in his eyes could’ve lit up the whole damn world. He’d jumped off the board and thrown his arms around me, grinning so wide it made my chest ache.

“You’re the best big brother ever.”