Page 166 - The Houseguest

as not to bring attention to her presence there. She held a dirty, torn and tattered blanket in her hands and pulled it up to her neck. It was winter and their father hadn’t chopped any wood for the fireplace in weeks. He was on a long bender, the longest Brian had seen. As he sat letting his mind wander, he mentally relived the conflict he felt as a young boy wishing his father would die, but wondering how they’d survive if he actually did. It was his father’s government checks that brought food in, though supplies were scarce the fourth week of the month. When the check finally did arrive, his dad would buy beer and whiskey first and foremost, leaving what was left for food and necessities.
Brian remembered slowly approaching little Laura in the corner. He saw her cheeks were wet from crying. He wondered why she was out there in the living room, as she would usually hide in her own tiny bedroom located on the other side of the small house. As he approached her, she sprang to her feet and ran to him, clutching his legs tightly. He knelt down to hold her, to comfort her, trying to make her feel safe. He’d never seen her so scared. He cupped her small face in his hands and stared into her eyes, fearing the worst. “Did he touch you?” His voice grew louder and he could see his tone frightened her. So he asked again firmly, but calmer: “Did he touch you?”
Laura shook her head no. Brian was relieved because he thought that’s the one thing that would make him kill his own father. He sat her back down and put her little blanket over her shoulders, then retrieving an old afghan from the back of the couch to add to what little warmth could be made. He walked slowly back to her room. There he was, lying on her bed, passed out. His pants were around his knees, but his
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life