Page 84

“Holy shit, Malcolm,” I shriek, then slap a hand over my mouth. “Holy… sugar!” I correct myself. “We need to clean your feet.”

I look around us, thinking of a way to clean his feet without bringing him inside. I don’t want to bring him inside that house of horrors. I don’t know what Steve and Kirsty would do if they caught me.

There’s nothing but grass around us.

“It’s okay, Xander. You don’t have to.” His small voice brings my attention back to him.

He grabs one of the shoes and carefully slides it onto his foot, hissing as he does it.

My leg starts nervously bouncing as I watch him. “Malcolm, you’re gonna make it worse,” I whine.

His hands start shaking, and I’m starting to panic. He must be in a lot of pain.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I wait for him to finish putting the shoes on.

“Done!” he says, and I can hear the happiness in his voice. When I open my eyes again, he’s standing above me, hands on his hips and a wide smile on his face.

He looks ridiculous with my massive shoes on him, but they’ll protect his feet.

“Malcolm!” an angry voice calls from the direction of his house. He jerks, and the smile falls from his face. Sadness fills me as he swallows before starting to head back towards his house.

“Malcolm, wait.” I stop him before he leaves. “Keep the shoes hidden outside. You don’t want them finding those.”

He nods and walks back towards his house with his shoulders bunched. I watch as he disappears into the grass.

I growl and rip handfuls of grass from the ground, wincing at the pain in my wrist.

Steve’s doing.

It’s always fucking him.

I’m so angry.

I want my dad.

Dad would know what to do.

He would make me laugh.

He would take me away from this horrible place.

I stand up from the floor and walk back to the house.

After making sure no one is around, I sneak towards the stairs and glance inside the front room. Steve is there with his big belly out, slouching on the sofa with a bottle of beer in his hand.

I gulp as I continue up the stairs to my room, making sure to create no noise.

He’s been getting worse recently. He comes home with a huge pack of alcohol almost every night after the pub. And when he’s not at the pub, he drinks here. The sound of smashing plates and thuds every night is normal. In the morning, Kirsty sits in the kitchen and cries about how bad her life is. Normally, that gets her a smack across the face from Steve, but last week, he broke her arm for it.

Not that I care.

It would be better if they both just killed each other and left me alone.

Forest—the teddy bear my dad bought me years ago—is exactly where I left him earlier. I sprint towards my bed and grab him off the pillow, cuddling him into me but making sure to be careful of his arm that’s barely hanging on—thanks to Steve. Two weeks ago, he ripped off Forest’s arm because I didn’t eat my vegetables at dinner. He called me an ‘ungrateful little shit’ and snatched him off me. He threw him at me in the middle of the night, and his arm was barely clinging on.

I hate him.

I only eat my vegetables because, according to my new PE teacher, it helps to keep you healthy.