Saving Scout O'Brian (REMASTERED)

Ten

Scout

*This chapter contains depictions of sexual, emotional, and physical abuse. Read at your own risk*

I fucking hated it down here.

The darkness creeped along my skin in a damp chill, leaving goosebumps and dread in its wake.

I scuff my feet across the basement floor, wrinkling my nose at a rat as it skitters by with a squeak. I usually avoid this part of the house at all costs, but I promised myself I'd be quick.

The light bulb sways back and forth, casting eerie shadows across the walls.

I force my feet off of the last few steps and glare at the light at the top of the stairs, my lip curling in a defiant sneer when I catch my foster parents lovingly asking my foster brother what he would like them to cook for dinner.

I lick my split lip, my eyes darting back and forth as I skitter just like the rat to the dryer, the empty laundry basket banging against my knees.

For such a nice income, you'd think they would've taken the time to update the fucking basement/cellar.

I hurry through pulling my clothes from the dryer, my ears straining for every sound, my stomach bottoming to my knees when a telltale creak alerts me to someone coming down the stairs. It takes considerable effort to deny the urge to panic as I hug the overflowing basket to my chest and reluctantly turn to face him.

"Hey sis." Ezekiel's mocking voice filters through the small room.

His pale, almost white hair nearly glows in the muted light, and his eyes, a frigid blue so searingly cold it bleeds into my bones, meet mine.

At sixteen, he's already approaching six feet tall, and nearing disarmingly attractive. It's too bad underneath all that southern charm is nothing but pure, demented, evil.

"Mom said you might need some help."

He says it almost sweetly, as if earlier, he hadn't dragged me across the floor by my hair. My scalp is still raw.

I know I should be nice. I should bite my lip and give in to whatever sinister game he has planned this time. I don't bother giving my foster parents a thought. They wont help me. All they care about is making their son happy so that his wrath doesn't touch them.

Knowing this, I definitely know I should keep my mouth shut. But I can't.

"I don't." I say, my breathing tightening in my chest. "But thanks."

His eyes darken so fast, and I stop breathing all together. There he is; the leviathan beneath his skin. I wondered how I was so oblivious for so long. I mean, I only just turned thirteen a couple months ago. He rakes that vile gaze over me, calculating in his assessment of my jean shorts and favorite comfy tee, his lips pursing into a tight line.

"Where are you going dressed like that?" He sneers, taking another step towards me, his broad shoulders casting shadows behind him. They look like wraiths, wafting off of him.

"Nowhere, I'm just grabbing my laundry, Zeke." I realize the mistake in my words as soon as they leave my mouth, and even then, its not enough time to save me.

Only his mother ever calls him that, and he hates it.

In a heartbeat, he's wrenched the basket from me, and my clean clothes fall in a heap to the floor. His hand is wrapped around my throat, and his face is so close his nose squishes mine.