Alleyway BxB

X (Desperate Measures)

WEDNESDAY, 3 OCTOBER
NATHAN COVINGTON

"Home sweet home." I rolled my eyes at the stupid cliché.

Home? Sweet? In my dreams.

As I rounded the corner of my street, I eyed the house at the very end of it.

Looks more like hell to me.

The guys left to some party that I had no energy for, and I wanted to talk to him today. Besides, Matt forgot to take a few things and I just couldn't trust him there alone with him. Maybe he would remember last Thursday. Maybe he'd be a normal person just for my sake. Maybe he'd act like my Dad again for just this once. It couldn't have been too much to ask. He had done it so well for fifteen years; why stop?

The solid asphalt turned into the soft padding of grass beneath my feet. Music still thumped in my ears and I lined my footsteps up accordingly to the beat. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my large collection of keys. Ryder, Jaxon, Carter and... there they were: the keys to my own house. Slowly, I opened the door to nothing, and I couldn't say I was surprised anymore. It looked the same as when I last left it, except the stench had reached the air again. I counted the empty bottles and cans and tried not to let the disappointment take me over.

He must have forgotten.

A quick peek into the kitchen revealed the pile of unwashed dishes by the sink, even a broken glass on the counter.

Or he remembered, but just doesn't care anymore.

It was a stupid ideal, anyway; and I was stupid for even believing in it slightly. Of course I had to clean it up because who else would? A part of me thought I could last the night here but Ryder's place felt like such a sanctuary compared to this dump. Steak for dinner sounded better than stale bread and butter. But I had Matt to look out for. I grabbed a dustpan to clean up the broken glass but tugged out an earphone by accident.

Then, there was a loud thump. I froze, eyes snapped to the ceiling at the noise above me. Something hard against wood.

Matthew.

The closest thing to me was an empty bottle of wine, and I bolted up the stairs—two steps at a time.

"It's all your fault; you know that?! Everything I cared about, you took her away from me." A scream laced with heartbreak that I held no more sympathy for. I missed her as much as he did.

I slowed down my pace, turned my sprint into a tiptoe—stuck close to the wall to avoid the creaks in the flooring. I wanted to sneak up on him. It was the best plan I had but a shuffle of feet, a yelp of pain, and a final thump threw my sensibility out the window.

Matt's room was in absolute shambles and the door hung barely by its own hinges after it was blatantly kicked in. Everything was turned upside down and I could have easily mistaken it for a drug raid. All his art supplies peppered the floor in total disarray and by the foot of the bed, Matthew laid knocked out and our own father stood above him.

Not again.

He was huffing—either by rage or by exhaustion—and one of Matthew's larger art books was gripped firmly in his dominant hand.

I gripped the empty bottle tighter and swallowed my nerves. "What is wrong with you?"

Our father had spun around so fast he almost tipped over. Eyes glazed—so far out of it. "You too, huh? I can't believe I raised a couple of worthless little shits." He dropped the book, thankfully away from Matt. "Bring it on then," he beckoned.