Struck

Three

Lena:

I knew that hell was in store for me as soon as Luke left. I hesitated at the doorknob as the garage door lowered itself behind me, cutting off contact with the rest of the world. I shut my eyes and pushed the door open.

There was a chipped bowl rolling on the tiled kitchen floor, which would have been the source of the crash I heard earlier.

“Dammit!” Bennett’s voice hollered from the pantry. He stumbled out of it, his month-old beard adding on to his recently-acquired homeless look. I stared at my feet, still clothed in rugged boots. I heard his heavy footsteps pound on the hardwood, right toward me.

“Where’d you hide my whiskey?” he snarled in my face. His reeking breath seared my eyes, making me shut them tightly.

“I-I didn’t… You probably drank it,” I said, feeling my bottom lip quiver with every word escaping my mouth.

I felt a sudden numbness on my cheek, and then a surge of heat as the pain seeped through my skin. A Bennett-sized handprint burned on my cheek as I swallowed. I clenched my hands, popping my knuckles as I dug my fingernails into my palm.

“You worthless girl,” My fingernails dug deeper. I stood firmly on the wood, feeling my face throb as I counted the lines in the hardwood beneath me, waiting for the moment to pass.

“I know you’re hiding it from me,” Bennett licked his lips, his hands clenching and unclenching as if wrapped around a nonexistent bottle of alcohol. Before I could register his movement, I was running into the coffee table. Again. Bennett looked at me from above as I felt new bruises forming on my thigh and side. My bottom lip hit a sharp wooden corner when my body reacted to gravity and fell. My eyes stayed dry, and avoided contact with him.

“Damn you,” he snarled, dragging his feet to the coat rack and grabbing his jacket. He shrugged it on sluggishly and stumbled through the door, not giving me a second glance.

I lifted my head off of the coffee table and examined it. Its leg was beginning to splinter. I ran my fingers over all of its scratches, new and old. I blinked as a drop of blood landed on its surface. I touched my fingers to my lip, and they came away sticky. I sighed as I pulled myself to my feet and to the window by the door, pushing the white curtains away with my clean hand.

I observed through the dusty window as Bennett made his way down the street, undoubtedly into the town bar to beg poor bartenders if he can place more drinks on his tab. I sighed as I locked the door in one swift movement with a satisfying click.

I walked upstairs to my bathroom as I pulled my hair from my dried lip blood. I caught my gaze in the mirror, and turned to look at myself in the full. My chubby cheeks were as pale as ever, making my eyes look sunken in. I turned my eyes downward, away from the mirror, as I ran warm water into the sink. I rubbed the blood off of my fingers and mouth, grimacing from the burning sensation at my open lip wound. I held a wad of toilet paper to it as I laid down on my bed.

Bennett used to be better. My mother was always a charitable person, believing in the value of second chances. She gave me one when she adopted me. She gave Bennett one when she rescued him from Alcoholics Anonymous. I don’t know how, but she managed to see good in everyone. So did I, for a while. I even called Bennett “dad” for a long time, until he became, well, Bennett. After losing my mom, Bennett lasted about a week before almost drowning himself. I remember Mom telling me on her deathbed: “Don’t give him the key to the alcohol cabinet”. He found it in record time, taking only a few days to dig through my room. And over a year later, he managed to spend most of my mom’s savings on hundred-year-old collector’s wines and brandies.