Young Writers Society

"You're dead, Ricky." My brother's dulcet tones echoed down the dark and cluttered hallway, his silhouette a hulking shadow leaning out of the bathroom. I dropped my keys on the cabinet shelf and dumped my bag on the floor, not bothering to turn the light on and aggravate my headache. God, tonight's shift had been long.

"I'm dead every night, Ty," I said, lethargic. "It's called being a bartender." I eased open the door to the kitchen, going slowly so it wouldn't make those godawful screeching noises. If I could ever find the WD-40 I'd spray those hinges until they were begging for mercy.

A staggering crash told me that Tyler had stumbled toward me, and from the sound of it had knocked over the laundry pile and maybe the books, too. I glanced back and nearly jumped out of my skin.

Tyler loomed over me, his shadowed face inches from mine, half-dressed and rigid. The sharp smell of his cologne rolled over me, thick and suffocating. And he was clutching a bar of soap.

"I mean it this time," he growled. "You're dead. You won't see the morning."

He was serious. I blinked and stumbled backward, caught completely off guard. Tyler hadn't pulled something like this since those first couple months after he'd gotten out of jail last year. He'd sworn up and down he was going to do better and here he was in another rage.

“You’re going to kill me? With a bar of soap? Never heard of that being used as a murder weapon before.” I spoke lightly even as my mind raced and my heart pounded. I took a few quick steps back into the kitchen, looking around for something — anything — I could defend myself with. Preferably something more deadly than a bar of soap. I could get to the knives if I had to --

He brandished the soap. “I’m going to ram it down your lying throat!” His eyes popped and his face was grotesque with rage.

I couldn't smell alcohol on his breath. That was a good sign. It meant I could talk him down, if I could figure out what lie of mine was grinding his gears this time.

“Now, come on,” I said with an uneasy smile, “if this is about me cheating at cards last night, man, you’ve gotta know by now that’s the whole game! Look, I’ll give you half back if you insist.”

“I’m talking about her, you idiot,” he snarled. "Lily."

Oh. Oh.

"How did you... ?" I said lamely.

"She called me. Got the number from your phone."

Of course she had. That girl was too clever for her own good. I had told her so many times talking to her father would just make it worse, and what had she gone and done?

"You knew! For ten years, you knew she lived ten minutes away. You go and visit her every week and you've never once said -- " And he swung a punch at me, fist screaming through the air.

I dodged reflexively, but it only made him madder. He took a step forward, backing me into a counter. His next swing hit, and his next, in the face and then the gut. Twin cores of pain exploded. I slid down the counter. Got. To get. Away.

Lily. The daughter he'd had with his ex-girlfriend back when they were both seventeen. His ex-girlfriend had given her up for adoption. Three months before, my dear brother had caused a wreck while driving drunk, killing two. He'd spent the next twelve years in prison for manslaughter.

I ducked under Tyler and stumbled, smacking into the floor. I couldn't get up fast enough. He was on me again, kicks and wild punches raining down, like when I was ten and he was fourteen --

No. I could fight now. I shot out a leg and hooked his out from under him. Tyler crumbled to the floor.

"I'm sorry!" I shouted. Tyler froze. "I'm sorry," I repeated in a whisper. "But look at yourself."

He looked. Me, curled up on the floor. Him, fists clenched, still holding that bar of soap, ready to kill the only family member who had given him the time of day in years.

He let out a horrified cry and thrust the soap away from him. It skittered across the floor. Breathing ragged, he sank his head into his hands.

The danger was past, for now. I pushed myself into a sitting position, wincing as my head spun.

"You told me she was adopted," Tyler said, voice breaking. "To a loving family, you said. But she's not."

"Lily is in foster care," I admitted. "She started living with that family a few months ago. She wasn't adopted at birth. It was going to work out, I didn't lie to you at first. But after that there was nothing you could do, no point in saying anything."

"I'm her father. I had a right to know - "

"I said, I'm sorry," I retorted. "But this, this right here, this is exactly why. Do you think she needs this in her life?" I swept my hand out, including the whole sorry scene - the both of us on the floor, the disastrous apartment, the clock on the stove that read two a.m. The perfect environment for a twelve-year-old girl.

"She's my daughter," Tyler said, choked. "She needs me. A girl needs her father."

What was I supposed to say to that? Not this kind of father?

"Every day, I thought about her." It was if all the fight had gone out of him. He sat slumped on the floor, making no move to get up. "Every day in prison, even now. I thought I'd done the right thing, I thought she'd be happy with a real family but she doesn't even have that... "

His voice faded, and his shoulders shook. I drew in a sharp breath. Tyler, my grown brother, the angry beast, was sobbing on the floor of our tiny kitchen.

After a long moment, I inched closer and put my hand on his shoulder, letting him cry.

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A/N - Written for the Writing Olympics. I'm pretty happy with it, but I'd love feedback, particularly title suggestions.