Thanks For Nothing (Teen Wolf)

02 | Bruise

TW: Abuse

One year ago:

A collection of empty beer bottles laid scattered across the living room floor. A laundry detergent commercial loudly played from the television and flashed bright colors across the dimly lit room. The sound of shattered glass sounded from the kitchen followed by a petrified shriek.

Heavy footsteps pounded against the tile flooring as Riley wildly whipped her body around the corner and darted through the living room. The socks on her feet caused her to slip across the smooth floor with her hands desperately outstretched for the wall and couch on her sides.

She regained her balance after a few seconds and sprinted toward the staircase. The brush of her father's fingertips against the back of her shirt sent shivers down her spine in fear. Her heart rapidly pounded against her chest as she ran for her life, knowing several new injuries would occur if she were caught.

"Get back here, you bitch!" Mr. Callaway bellowed at his daughter.

One of the beer bottles caught beneath her foot near the base of the staircase and lost her balance. Her hands reached out for the railing as her body fell forward and landed on the last four steps.

The edge of the fourth step roughly met the side of her forehead and split the skin open just beneath her hairline. Her breath was stolen from her lungs from the debilitating collision into her ribcage, surely to be bruised by morning— if not broken.

Mr. Callaway flipped his daughter onto her back without spilling a drop of his beer. He wavered on his feet from the abundant amount of alcohol in his system. His usual limit during the week was seven beers, except for the nights before his days off, where he would drink as many as he could stomach before he passed out on the couch.

The tears gathered in Riley's hazel eyes forced her vision to blur and became a liability in the suspenseful situation. Every night was a matter of life and death when her father drank too much and his abusive tendencies rose to the surface.

The teenager was forced to adapt to her new lifestyle. She learned his most consistent behavioral habits when it came to the abuse he inflicted upon her; always went for a strike when she was most vulnerable, tapped his wedding ring, and started small talk before the worst punishments. Riley's instincts kicked in when she moved her head to the far right and successfully dodged the punch that was intended for her.

Her father howled in pain when his fist slammed into the wood of the staircase. His face contorted with pain as he cradled his injured hand and pressed the cool bottle against his knuckles.

Riley rushed to wipe the tears away from her eyes before she used the small distraction to weakly climb to her feet. She ran up the remaining steps with her right hand clutched around her ribcage, struggling to catch her breath. The throbbing in her head increased with every step she took.

"Damn it," her father swore from the bottom of the stairs.

The stairs creaked beneath her father's weight and the sound sent shivers down her spine at his determination to catch her. She sucked in a deep breath. Her hands pushed against the wall when she reached the second floor to propel herself further down the hallway to her bedroom.

The door slammed shut behind her racing figure the moment she entered the temporary safety of her room. Her shaky fingers worked to lock the door before she grabbed her desk chair and placed it beneath the doorknob.

This wasn't the first time she found the chair to be useful against her father's attacks. She wobbly walked away from the door, fearful he'd find enough adrenaline through his drunken rage to break the door down.