A Flicker of Remorse

Declan POV

The heavy bass from the stereo vibrated through the cracked floorboards of Liam’s basement, but I barely registered the noise. My friends clustered around the worn-out pool table, laughing and passing around a six-pack of cheap beer. They were blind to the knot twisting tight in my gut. I sat slumped on the edge of the ratty sofa, staring at the concrete floor. My stomach churned, a sour, acidic wave of nausea rising in the back of my throat. I couldn't shake this suffocating dread pressing down on my chest.

Lately, a bitter taste lingered in my mouth whenever I joined in on the cruelty I usually inflicted on my younger sister, Sylvie. The crushed, haunted look in her eyes had started sparking flashes of guilt inside me. It was a new, uncomfortable feeling. If our mother hadn't died protecting her all those years ago, Sylvie wouldn’t be trapped here, growing up in our father's personal hell of an abusive house. She would have been a normal, happy teenager. Instead, she was his punching bag. And mine. That nagging guilt was why I went out of my way to warn her earlier today that the old man was on the warpath. He had gotten himself fired yet again. Another job lost to his chronic drinking. I knew how explosive and ugly his benders could get when he was drowning in liquor and looking for a target.

"Declan, man, you're killing the vibe over there," Liam groaned, tossing a crushed aluminum can at my feet. It bounced off my boot with a hollow clatter. "Have a drink. Loosen up."

"I'm out," I muttered, standing up and grabbing my jacket.

"What? You just got here, dude!"

I ignored their protests and shoved my hands deep into my pockets, heading straight for the basement stairs. "Got somewhere to be." I blew them off without a second thought. They could survive one night without me. Whatever this heavy, creeping sensation in my gut was, it screamed at me to get home right away.

The crisp night air hit my face as I hurried down the dark pavement. I walked fast, my jaw clenched tight, trying to convince myself I was overreacting. Everything was fine. My gut could be wrong. After all, the old man was likely passed out on the couch by now. I hated facing him when he was on a massive tear, but my instincts refused to let up.

I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. The house was dead quiet. Far too quiet. The only sound echoing in the suffocating stillness was a harsh, wet snoring. I stepped into the dimly lit living room and spotted my father slumped back in his greasy recliner. An empty glass bottle dangled from his thick, calloused fingers. A graveyard of empty bottles littered the floor around his boots. He was out cold.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, but the relief vanished in an instant. Sylvie wasn't in the kitchen. Normally, she would be standing at the sink, scrubbing the dinner dishes and making herself invisible. She wasn't anywhere in sight.

Then, it hit me.

The heavy, metallic stench of fresh blood hung thick in the air.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Ice flooded my veins. The old man didn't have a single scratch on him, which meant the blood wasn't his.

Dread clamped down on my throat as I rounded the corner into the hallway leading to the kitchen. My boots squeaked against the floorboards, and then I stopped dead in my tracks. The blood drained from my face, leaving me frozen in horror.

"No," I choked out, a sudden wave of bile surging up my throat. I swallowed hard, forcing the sickening taste down.

Sylvie lay unmoving on the cold, hard linoleum. She looked like a discarded, broken rag doll, her limbs splayed out at awkward angles. A dark, thick pool of crimson spread across the floor beneath her head, reflecting the harsh fluorescent light above. The edges of the puddle were turning dark and sticky. The smell was overpowering up close. How long had she been lying here bleeding out? What the hell had he done to her?

My breathing hitched. I rushed forward and dropped to my knees, ignoring the blood soaking into the denim of my jeans. I reached out with a trembling hand, pressing two fingers flat against the side of her pale neck.

A weak, thready pulse tapped against my skin. I watched her chest rise and fall in shallow, ragged intervals. She was unconscious, but she was alive. A fierce, sudden wave of relief washed over me, closely followed by a burning spike of protectiveness. I wanted to tear the old man apart with my bare hands.

"What have you done, old man?" I whispered grimly into the silent kitchen.

I slid my arms beneath her fragile frame and scooped her limp body off the floor. Her head lolled back against my chest, her hair heavy and matted with cooling blood. She weighed nothing in my arms. Holding her like this, battered and broken, that strange protective instinct flared hotter.

I tried to shake it off. I couldn't afford to get soft. I gritted my teeth and carried her toward the stairs. She was the reason our mother was dead. That was the unshakeable truth my father drilled into my head every single day since I was a kid. That was why I couldn't forgive her, no matter how much pain was in her eyes.

But as I carried her up the creaking staircase, feeling the faint warmth of her shallow breath against my collarbone, I began to doubt the narrative I had swallowed for years. The realization hit me like a physical blow. She had only been five years old when our mother died. How could a toddler be responsible for a grown woman's death? What if the old man was lying to justify his abuse? What if Sylvie was innocent? I had no real reason to doubt her, other than the drunken rants of a man who blamed the world for his problems.

I shook my head, trying hard to clear the chaotic thoughts flooding my mind. I stepped into her cramped, dreary bedroom and carried her over to the small mattress. As I laid her down, I noticed the bleeding had stopped. The deep, ugly gash on her scalp was already knitting itself together. Our werewolf healing was slow, but it was working. By tomorrow morning, the physical wound would be gone, as though it had never happened.

But the memory of the violence would stay with her forever. Another trauma added to her massive pile. I felt a sharp pang of grief at the thought. The poor girl barely had any happy memories left to hold onto.

I laid her head gently on the thin pillow and grabbed the worn blanket from the foot of the bed. I pulled it up, gingerly tucking it around her small shoulders to ward off the chill of the room. I stood there for a long moment, staring down at her bruised face. My chest tightened. I debated walking over and locking her bedroom door to keep him out.

I glanced back toward the dark hallway. No. The old man was too drunk to move, let alone climb the stairs and do any more damage tonight. Plus, if he woke up and caught me playing the caring older brother, his wrath would be catastrophic. He would turn his drunken rage on me, and then take it out on her ten times worse tomorrow. I couldn't risk drawing his full attention. It was safer for both of us if I kept my distance.

I backed away from the bed, my boots silent on the floorboards. I forced my eyes away from her. I refused to look at her face anymore. In sleep, she just looked like an innocent, vulnerable kid, and I couldn't stomach the guilt twisting inside me.

She’ll sleep it off. She always does. The last thing she needs right now is the older brother who torments her lingering by her bedside.

I stepped out into the hallway and pulled her door shut with a soft click. I didn't look back. I retreated to my own room at the end of the hall, shutting myself inside the familiar four walls. I dropped my jacket on the floor and slumped down at my desk, pulling out a textbook.

I guess I'll have to do my own homework tonight, I thought absently. I grabbed a pen, but my hand hovered over the blank page. The words on the paper blurred together. No matter how hard I tried to focus on the assignment and distract myself, my mind remained stubbornly fixated on the image of Sylvie lying in that dark pool of blood, and just how broken she seemed.