"I'm home!" Brendon echoed as he returned home. Small footsteps caused the light wooden floors to vibrate as his younger sister, Brianna, pounced her way through the house to meet her brother. Her light brown curls and yellow dress bounced as she ran towards him.
"Brenny, I've missed you!" she exclaimed, wrapping her tiny arms around him.
"Bri, I've only been gone for a day," he chuckled, hugging her back, "you go to school, too."
"I knowww," she laughed, "but waiting another hour until you're done with tutoring takes forever." Her misty grey eyes looked up at her brother, the corners crinkling as she smiled a crooked, half-toothed grin. Brendon had always been jealous of her beautiful eyes, for he had dark, mud-colored ones, like his father's.
"Well, would you rather me be gone longer in summer school?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. She giggled as Brendon picked her up. Suddenly, their joyous moment was silenced by the sound of a creaking recliner. Brianna gasped, muttering something under her breath as she worked her way out of her brother's embrace. Giant-like stomps pounded their way throughout the Urie household, shaking glasses, plates and decorative vases. A tall, stocky man wearing a wife-beater, black boxers, and disgusting once-grey socks entered the kitchen area. An irritated look was imprinted upon their father's beat red and stubble-covered face.
"Will you two shut the hell up?" he grimaced. Brianna slyly took her brother's hand in fear. "I've been trying to get some decent sleep around here, but with you guys shoutin' about seeing each other—even though you see one another every damn day—I can't sleep. And without sleep, I can't regain my energy. And without energy, I can't get money. And—"
"Without money we'll be sent to live with Aunt Susan in Georgia," Brendon finished dryly, rolling his eyes. He wished he and his sister could live far, far away from his father.
"Hey, now don't be smart with me, young man," Donald Urie angrily said, pointing a bandaged finger at him, "You better be grateful for what you have. Quit your complaining, you hear?" Brendon looked him dead in the eye, persistent on not breaking eye-contact.
"What are those bandages for?" he asked. Brianna poked his back, implying for him to stop talking.
"Why does it matter? Get to your room and do you homework. And if I hear another peep outta you two—" their father slammed his fist on the kitchen table. That was enough to get his message across quite clearly. He waddled back to the living room, leaving his two children in a frazzled state. Brendon noticed his sister shivering and her repeatedly touching her right arm. He took Brianna's hand and walked with her to his room, kicking aside cigarette packs and burned out joints throughout the house. Brianna sat gingerly on Brendon's bed, continuing to grab her upper arm.
"Bri," he whispered quietly, "did he—"
"I'm fine," she quickly said, "it—it was my fault, anyway." Brendon's face turned an angry red.
"No . . ." he said louder, "no, Brianna, it's never your fault. If he hits you—if he ever hurts you, just always remember it's never, ever your fault."
"But he said—and—and I—" she tried to argue. Brendon took her hand and lifted up her sleeve, showing a large welt above her elbow. Black and blue skin could be strongly seen against her pale, freckled arm. Sitting beside his sister, whose eyes began to collect tears, Brendon placed his hand on her shoulders to face him.
"Always tell me. Always tell me when something's wrong, ok?" he told her. "Never be afraid to tell me, Bri." Wiping away a tear, Brianna nodded, understanding the importance of the situation.
"Brenny," she sniveled, burying her head in her brother's chest,"can you tell me a story?"
"Of course," he said, kissing the top of her head, "once upon a time . . ."
