A Brother's Twisted Cruelty

Declan POV

Deep in the shadows of the forest, the night air bites with a crisp chill, but I hardly feel it. I sit perched on a rotting fallen log, blatantly smoking weed and passing a cheap, sweating bottle of beer between my hands. My two best mates, Vance and Corbin, lounge in the dirt nearby, their laughter echoing through the thick trunks. We do not care about the pack patrols that might be roaming the borders tonight. We do not care about our parents' rules or their expectations. My dad certainly does not keep track of where I go or what I do, as long as I do not get in the way of his nightly benders.

Vance takes a long drag from his blunt, a smirk playing on his lips as he exhales a thick cloud of smoke. "Hey bro," he teases, tossing me another cold bottle. "How’s your sister going?"

I catch it with one hand, twisting the cap off, and roll my eyes in irritation. I am well aware of the annoying, pathetic little crush Vance has harbored on Sylvie for years, and he makes no real effort to hide it. It sickens me.

"She’s not my sister," I snap back, my voice tight and thoroughly irritated. "And you know it. She’s the reason my mother is dead and I hate her."

Corbin chortles at my reaction, tipping his head back to take a swing of his own drink. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a crude grin spreading across his face. "I gotta say, man, she’s hot stuff though."

I spin around, narrowing my eyes at him threateningly, letting a low growl rumble in my chest. "What do you mean by that?" I hiss.

Corbin shuts up instantly, the amusement draining from his features as he shrinks back under my glare. He knows he crossed a line. I am not protective of Sylvie in the slightest. Far from it. But I will not tolerate my friends making remarks like that about her.

"Stay away from her," I warn them both. "She’s nothing but trouble. Just ask my father," I add darkly. "The only thing she’s good for is the housework."

Vance and Corbin exchange a quick look but nod, choosing to keep their mouths shut and sip their beers. The silence settles back in, comfortable enough, but soon, our hangout comes to an end. The beer runs dry, and the buzz from the weed begins to fade.

Corbin checks his phone, and a scowl forms on his face. He climbs to his feet, bitterly muttering about his mother being on his case because we all got suspended from school. He gives a sarcastic wave and ambles off into the darkness, swallowed by the thick woods.

Vance sighs, staring at the glowing ember of his blunt before putting it out with a regretful sigh. He looks at me, grimly noting that his parents are just as furious about the suspension. "Dad threatened to beat the hell out of me," he adds. "He won't, but pretending he cares makes him feel better."

"What are you going to do tonight?" Vance asks before he leaves, adjusting his jacket.

I shrug, throwing my empty bottle to smash against a nearby rock. The glass shatters, glittering in the faint moonlight. "I guess I’ll go home. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Sylvie will still be up to tease."

Vance chuckles at that, giving me a quick pat on the shoulder. He heads off in the opposite direction, leaving me alone in the quiet woods.

As I walk home alone through the quiet woods, the crunch of dead leaves beneath my boots is the only sound breaking the stillness. Slowly, a familiar dread begins to creep into my chest. The weed takes the edge off, but it does not mask the harsh reality of what awaits me. I know exactly what awaits me at home: a completely flat-out drunk father. Almost every single night follows the exact same miserable pattern. Sometimes he hurls insults at me when I walk through the front door, but mostly, he reserves his loudest screams and heaviest blows for Sylvie. It is a routine that has been in place since she was five and our mother died.

I kick a loose stone along the dirt path, watching it bounce into the underbrush. I used to feel a tiny sliver of pity for her when we were younger. I used to watch her cower away from his fists and feel a brief pang of sympathy in my gut. But the moment my mother's cold grave flashes in my mind, that pity completely vanishes. Sylvie killed her. It is her fault we live like this, and she deserves every ounce of suffering she gets.

My thoughts drift back to my father. With Dad's drinking getting worse, spiraling further out of control with each passing week, he is on the verge of losing yet another job. The pack leadership will not keep turning a blind eye forever. The thought of carrying his passed-out weight to bed makes me wince. The stale smell of cheap liquor radiating off his pores makes my stomach churn, but I do it because I have to.

Taking my sweet time to delay my return, I look up at the sparse patches of night sky visible through the branches. A sudden realization hits me, stopping me dead in my tracks. Our suspension ends tomorrow, and I haven't touched a single piece of my schoolwork. I have not even unzipped my backpack since the principal kicked us off the campus grounds.

A wry smile forms on my lips, cutting through the lingering dread. Sylvie is much smarter than me, and she can easily do my homework to get me good grades. If she is already sleeping, I will just wake her up. It does not matter what time it is or how tired she is. She knows better than to disobey me and face the consequences.

Smirking to myself, I pick up my pace. The dark outline of the house finally comes into view, sitting isolated on the extreme edge of the pack territory. The lights inside are dim, and the familiar knot of tension tightens in my stomach as I step onto the front porch.

I walk through the front door, the rusted hinges groaning in the still air. The suffocating smell of stale beer and unwashed floors hits me. The television murmurs from the living room, casting a flickering blue light across the narrow hallway. I ignore it, knowing my father is likely passed out in his armchair, oblivious to the world around him.

I swing my backpack off my shoulder and walk straight toward the kitchen, my footsteps heavy and hard against the floorboards. I locate my little sister by the counter. She looks pathetic, drowning in oversized clothes, her pale face marked with deep exhaustion from cleaning up after our father's mess all night.

Without a second thought, I hurl my heavy backpack directly at her chest.

"Oof," she cries out, gasping as the solid weight hits her. She stumbles back a step, barely catching the straps before the bag drops to the linoleum floor.

I barely spare her a glance, my face set in a cold, unforgiving mask. I do not care about the dark circles under her eyes.

"Do my homework tonight," I snarl, my voice cutting through the quiet kitchen like a serrated blade.

Sylvie clutches the heavy bag against her chest, her thin fingers gripping the coarse fabric. She looks up at me, but I refuse to acknowledge the pain in her eyes. I am completely ignoring the defeated, tear-filled look on her face as I harden my heart and walk away.

The heavy thud of my boots echoes down the dark hallway as I head for my room. I leave her standing there in the shadows, holding my heavy bag, knowing she will spend the rest of her miserable night doing exactly what I commanded.