My Brother's Best Friend [boyxboy] REWRITTEN

Chapter 4

~Justin's POV~

The sound of drums can be heard all the way to the second floor of our house. I pull the pillow over my head and groan as I shut my eyes tighter, trying to go back to sleep.

It's a fruitless cause, I know. Not only is the beat of the drums so loud it reverberates in my head but the stream of light coming from the open window is shining right onto my bed. No way am I getting any more sleep today.

With another groan, I sit up in bed and try to get my bearings. The clock on my phone shows nine thirty a.m.

On a Saturday morning.

Sighing, in resignation, I heave myself from the bed. Grabbing my towel I head for the bathroom, the noise of the drums increasing as I open my bedroom door. I'm surprised Noah hasn't come to wake me up by now if Isaac is here and already practicing.

Footsteps sound in the hallway and I stop outside the bathroom door, wondering if my brother had finally given up on waiting for me to wake up on my own. A middle-aged man in old jeans and a rundown shirt turns the corner and stops when he sees me. His curls--my curls--lay plastered to his head and his bloodshot eyes narrow every time the drum beats sound in the house.

"What the fuck is your piece of shit brother doing?" he demands.

I take an involuntary step back as he takes one forward. The smell of alcohol wafts toward me, no matter that we are at least ten feet away from each other. Swallowing past the dryness in my mouth and trying not the remember the feel of the bruise on my torso from the last time I had seen my father I shake my head.

He sneers at me, "Speak, damn you!"

A voice from behind him makes my heart stop and I can feel the blood draining from my face, my stomach churning, "Are you deaf, you little piece of shit? Your father asked you a question."

Taking a shaky breath of air I finally manage to get out in a small voice, "He-he's practicing with Isaac in the garage."

The source of the second voice makes herself known as she sidesteps my father. Her hair doesn't look much better than her husband's as it sticks up on end and seems to be clumped together in places. Black streaks of eye makeup run down her face from her red, hollow eyes, and her red lipstick is smeared across her thin lips. Her clothes are wrinkled and covered in stains and she smells worse than my father, if possible.

My hand reaches back and grabs ahold of the bathroom door handle as they approach me. I can see the malicious intent in their eyes as clearly as I can feel the soreness in my body from the last time I came face to face with my parents. My hand turns the knob and the door swings open behind me allowing me to step inside moments before they are within reaching distance.

Stepping into the bathroom I shut the door and lock it, leaning my forehead against the cool wood. A sharp bang makes me jump and step away from the only thing between me and the people who gave me life and made it hell.

When, after a few minutes, nothing else happens I let myself relax. My body is still shaking with leftover adrenaline and my heart is beating so hard in my chest I have to sit on the floor before I pass out. Taking deep breaths I try to control my reaction to the people who are supposed to take care of me.

Yeah, right.

They haven't been the caring, lovey-dovey type of parents.

Ever.

From very young my parents made it known that Noah and I were nothing more than a burden to them. One that they would gladly get rid of if possible. It became a kind of twisted game to them to see how badly they could injure us without going overboard. As a small child, I lived in constant fear that at any moment my father would burst into my room with some sort of torture device and inflict unimaginable pain.