The Afflicted

DAXTON

AUSTIN, TEXAS

6:30 AM

DECEMBER 20th

"Daxton, your father's home," Mom whispers. Great. Totally the first thing I want to hear when I wake up. I huff and stand from my rickety bed, my muscles protesting and popping as I stand.

"Get Cadence and stay up here. I'll go down," I yawn. Every morning, when my father comes home from his escapades, my mom comes to wake me up so I can go down and see how drunk he is. I pray for the day I'll no longer have to do this. Whether that means he doesn't come home drunk or doesn't come home at all, I am not sure. I slip my flannel pajama pants on and my Alamode De La Cruz t-shirt and head down to face my father.

The burly old man steps in the door, kicking his shoes off and throwing his coat on the floor. I mean, come on, we have coat racks for a reason. "Daxton, where's your mother?" he slurs. I can smell the whiskey off him from the top of the stairs. Whiskey means violence.

"Sleeping," I smile. I know it's dangerous to provoke him, but his pathetic form begs for me to take a jab at him. Honestly, I've been waiting years to do it and I won't hesitate now.

"We both know you don't want to lie to me." His sinister voice makes my skin crawl.

I meet his menace with equal fervor. "We both know you don't want to lay a finger on her."

"Move," he demands. I honestly don't know why I put up with this every morning. He's about three drinks away from cirrhosis of the liver, and I'll celebrate the day it keels.

"No." I refuse to move. I will not allow him to hurt my mom or brother again.

"Son, it's best if you move out of my way and fetch your mother. I just want to see my wife," he snips.

I scoff. Yeah right. To see if you can leave a bruise. His favorite piece of artwork is his family's skin littered in his fingerprints and handprints.

"Good luck with that. Don't you lay a finger on her."

"She's my wife. I can touch her if I please," he snaps, stepping towards the stairs.

"Daxton, move. It's okay," Mom whispers. "Good morning, Jeffery."

My father grabs her wrist, pulls her toward him, and wraps his hands around her neck.

"Let her go!" I shout, terror gripping my bones. He's never hurt her in front of me before, and suddenly, I'm scared I won't be enough to help her.

"If you ever lie to me again, I'll make sure she isn't the only one in this position." He squeezes her neck and shoves her to the ground, wheezing.

"Are you okay?" I rush to Mom's side, not caring what my father will do to me. The day that man dies is the day I'll finally pray to the god who has abandoned me and my family.

"I'm fine. Take Cadence and go," she whispers as she pulls me down to her. I kiss her cheek and stalk towards my father. He stands in the kitchen with his back to me, and I can see a bottle of Lullaby next to him. Figures. The name is highly unfitting for the drink; it does anything by placating the man and sending him to sleep. I walk up and jerk his arm toward me, spilling the Lullaby all over me in the process. He spins around just as my fist catches him on his jaw. He stumbles backward and falls on the broken Lullaby glass. He shrieks and reaches for a glass shard; I stomp on his hand, grab the knife off the counter, and thrust it into his chest. His eyes go wide, and he drops the glass and clutches the knife in his heart.

I guess I have to pray now.

"You...useless...piece of...shit," he stutters. I watch as his eyes flutter shut, and he breathes his last breath of air. Thank you, God, if you exist. As I stare at his dead body, it finally comes to me that I just killed someone. I just killed someone. I try to quell my inner panic before I go back to my mom.