Bad Liar: teen wolf

Chapter 2: mind, body and soul

TW: PTSD episodes, swearing, brief talk of excessive drinking.

Song: I Miss The Days
Artist: NF

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Willow Steele's pov:

"Willow."
"Willow."
"Willow."
"Willow!"

I wake up in my old house. I'm five. I remember it all so well, terrifyingly well. I am sitting on my ripped-up, unhygienic mattress on the floor of my shared bedroom (with my older sister). Violet. She is eight years older than me. She's thirteen. She's struggling too. We both are.

I can hear her raw screams from downstairs as she argues with dad. His deep growling voice interlocked with her high-pitched pre-teen one. He's yelling again, something about paying the bills on time and maybe something else about us kids being unhelpful. He's always moaning about one thing or another. That's what he always does. He takes his anger out on us— mostly me, because I 'won't be able to remember when I'm older'. He's wrong though, because I remember everything. I remember when my mother left a few months ago with a male hippy. And when dad smashed a half empty beer bottle over my head yesterday. And even when Violet was pushed down the stairs by him last week whilst he was in one 'episodes'.

"Willow!"
"Willow!"
"Willow!"

"Get down here, you little brat!"

I listen to dad. I trudge downstairs in my sisters' hoodie and a pair of tartan pyjama bottoms. I can hear his fist colliding with any object and surface he can get his hands on. My sister cries and runs out to the room, giving me a guilty glance as she sprints upstairs and slams the bathroom door shut. The floorboards creak and almost crack under my weight (I'm not heavy since there's hardly any food in the fridge) but because the house is brittle and falling apart.

"Willow!"
"Willow!"
"Willow!"

"I'm here, daddy." I whisper, standing in front of him. Tears streaming down my face like an ancient waterfall, his body towering in front of me. His grip on the glass bottle is stiff and strong. His face is unimaginably different, as if his soul has left his body long ago. "Please don't hurt me again, daddy."

He stares at me, fire raging in his eyes. He shows no remorse as he slams his fist on the wooden kitchen cabinet and stamps his large boot against the grotty floor. Before crouching down to be at near enough my size. His knee is rested on the ground as the rest of his body stays tense. I gaze up at him, my eyes wide and my face pale. His smirk quickly becomes an unnerving grin (like a villain in a DC film) as he punches my nose with his hard, clenched fist, before grabbing my throat and slamming my head into the wall.

He stands up and picks up another bottle of alcohol from the grim, greying refrigerator and walks outside to sit on the deck and drink his heart out. Leaving me perplexed, leaving against the draws in the kitchen, crying out in pain. And trying to muffle my upset whimpers with my bloody, shaking hand.

My head is pounding all over again. My face is a mixture of blood, tears, sweat and saliva from my own mouth. I can't breathe, he causes so much pain, I can't breathe. He makes me panic so much that I can't breathe. He hurts me so much that I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I steadily attempt to stand up. I tumble slightly and hit my elbow on the counter but proceed to check up on my big sister.

Quickly looking out of the kitchen window, I see dad passed out on the deck chair. His beer spilling all over his once white t-shirt onto the rustic patio— if you'd call it that. I wander upstairs and call out for Violet. She doesn't respond. I call her name again, but still she doesn't answer me. I hang my fists on the bathroom door and shout at her to stop hiding. She doesn't answer me.