Chapter One

Two years is a long time to spend without a mother. At twelve years old I shouldn't be worrying about whether or not my brother has eaten today or his homework is done. Most girls my age are focused on their homework and clothes. It's not that I mind taking care of Benton, if I didn't he would never be safe. It's just that I would love to be able to be a normal girl, just for one night.

I am pulled from my writing by the sound of my door squeaking open and my six year old brother's quiet voice: "Emmy?" he begins.

 "What is it Benny? Is it Daddy again? Are you okay?" I am immediately on alert. He is never this hesitant with me unless he has just gotten a whipping or Father is drunk. I don't see any fresh bruises and he seems to be moving fine, though still a bit stiff from the beating we had both suffered the night before, so I assume Daddy is drunk again.

"He has the bottles out again. Will you tell me the story about Mommy again?"  Whenever he is hurt or frightened Benton makes me tell him about the accident. He was only four when it happened so he doesn't remember much. I've tried telling him that it would be better for him not to know but he insists that it makes him feel closer to her.

I close my diary and slide it under my pillow and place the pen on my nightstand, making room for his tiny frame to lie beside me. "Mommy was a beautiful woman. She had long hair like mine and brown eyes just like yours." I always begin this way because it helps me remember what she looks like. I used to have a picture of her but Father found it and burned it in the fireplace and made me put out the fire and remove the burned bits of paper without gloves as punishment for reminding him so much of Mother.

"She loved us all very much. Everybody was so happy: me, you, Mommy, Daddy, and baby Calla. We were all in the car except for Daddy. He was at work. I was ten, you were four, and Calla was only six months old. You were singing along to some nursery rhyme tape, I was reading, and Calla was napping. The driver of the other car was playing with his radio and didn't even look up when his light turned red." I always started crying at this part... the part where the car plowed into our minivan, killing our mother and baby sister. I often wonder if the driver feels sorry for what he did.

As if reading my mind Benton looks up at me, "Emmy? Do you think he knows that he made Daddy so sad? He blames us for Mommy and Calla dying but it was that man's fault."

"I don't know, Benny, but Daddy knows it wasn't really our fault. I'm sure he blames the other driver, he just misses Mommy and Calla and since we look so much like Mommy it makes him sad. I don't think he means to hurt us so badly. He loved us before they died and I'm sure he still does."

"I sure hope so... But if he loves us why does he hit us so much? I know you say he doesn't mean to but he never says sorry and he keeps doing it."

"I don't know, buddy, I don't know..." I decide to change the subject before he can ask again, "How is your arm feeling today? Daddy kicked it pretty hard last night." He gingerly lifted his sleeve up so I could examine the worst of his injuries from last night’s, surprisingly gentle, beating. "It's a little red and starting to bruise but I think it'll be okay."

After a few hours of stories and quiet humming Benton finally fell asleep and I went downstairs to see what damage had been done to the house throughout Father's drunkenness today.