A/N: I don't own Shugo Chara!

Reviews are appreciated. ^^

I Knew the Fear

The house was silent. After a few hours of his incoherent babble, the occasional crash as he destroyed something out of drunken rage, the silence was almost, almost peaceful.

But I knew nothing in this house could ever be truly peaceful.

I bit my lip to keep from crying. I wished I could go back, back to when it was like what a normal family should be. I pushed the thought away and stood up from my bed, grabbing a blanket, and carefully made my way down the steps to where my dad was probably collapsed, drunk, on an article of furniture.

My father had recently taken to drinking after fights with my mother. After he drank he would always end up wasted and passed out, and I would always come out from my room after deciding if he was really passed out or not to cover him with a blanket, as there was no hope of me carrying him to his bed. My mother would drive away after a fight and stay away from the house for a night or two - where she went was a mystery to me, but it was always better for them to be separated; it meant no fighting for a bit. And, if I blocked all memories from my mind, I could pretend our family was like everyone else's, pretend that the silence didn't mean a drunken father and a resentful mother.

As I turned the corner, hugging the blanket tightly, I almost ran into my mother's back. I recoiled, surprised.

Why is mother home so early? I opened my mouth to ask her, but my words caught in my throat when I saw she was carrying a knife.

She made her way over to my father, who was splayed out atop the kitchen counter, a partially empty beer bottle still in his hand. My mother's mouth was tilted into a smirk, her eyes glazed over with a malicious light. My gaze traveled from the knife to my passed out father.

No, I thought. No, mama, please stop! I tried to force the words through the growing lump in my throat, but all that came out was a hoarse cry.

My mother's eyes snapped towards me, and, noticing my presence, the smirk turned into a sneer. "Your fault." she spat. "This'll be your fault. You're going to be the one who kills him." Her eyes flickered over my face, before she stabbed the knife through the countertop, barely a centimeter above my father's head.

I tried to take a step towards her, but my feet wouldn't move.

"Weak." she hissed maniacally. "You're weak, like your father. He wasn't strong enough to get me before I got him."

I wanted to shake my head, wanted to tell her, 'Father wouldn't ever try to kill you!' but my open mouth made no sound, and my head wouldn't tip to the side even in the slightest. She scowled, reading my thoughts through my eyes.

"Oh, yes, he would, Rima dearest. He would prepare first. He's too weak to take the consequences and kill me like a man." Her fingers traced the knife's handle before pulling it out of the countertop. "But I'm stronger than all of you. I can deal with being found out. I can kill him. I'll get rid of them all before they come for me." Her eyes flicked over my face. "Promise me, though, you won't let anyone get you." Then, a pause, as she reconsidered. "Oh, who am I kidding? You're going to be the one who's going to be stabbed in the back." Her tongue flicked across her lips. "Just like him."

I stood, frozen. If I was frozen out of fear or shock, I didn't know. I wanted to scream, to cry, to call for help, to stop her – to turn back the clock so we could be a normal family again. But I couldn't. I stood there like a statue, mind numb, letting my mother try to kill my father. I opened my mouth to tell her to stop and reached out a hand to her, even though she was across the room. I thought I felt a tear slide down my face, but I didn't care to check. My mother studied my face and knew I wanted to stop her. She only grinned sadistically and shook her head, a silent message to me. 'This is how it's supposed to be, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.'

And, all too soon, she turned back to my father, raising the knife above his chest with both hands. I screwed my eyes shut, dropping the blanket and covering my ears with my hands, chanting in my head, 'it's a dream. It's a dream. It's a horrible, horrible dream'.

But it wasn't enough to block out a weak, strangled gasp. And it wasn't nearly enough to block out the shattering of glass as my father released the almost-empty beer bottle he had been holding. And I knew that my mother had done it.

There was another silence – a silence that dragged on, wanting to stay forever, but was shattered by my mother's hysterical laughter.

"Open your eyes, Rima!" she screamed. "Open them!"

Yet as much as my mind protested, something made me obey her. As soon as my eyes opened, they flew to my father's still form. The knife was through his side - not a sure fatal point. He could possibly be alive.

But in the back of my mind, I knew he wasn't.

I glanced back my mom. Her eyes were wild, seemingly searching the room. She was breathing hard, her mouth parted slightly and twisted into a crazed grin.

She lifted the blood spattered knife to her chest. My eyes widened in horror. "You're going to tell them I killed him, aren't you?" she breathed in a low tone. I couldn't make myself speak, couldn't tell her we could fix this - because I knew we couldn't. I shook my head, only in the slightest, but I know she saw.

"Liar. Liar, liar, liar." she laughed. "My little Rima's a liar." she looked me up and down, as if imprinting my looks into her memory. "Don't touch me after this. Don't help me. I'll just do it again." Her eyes were crazed, but for a brief moment I saw the mother I used to know – and I knew she was doing this out of fear; a fear that I knew the meaning of all too well. She had killed him so she could be the one to leave before she was left; she killed him because she was afraid of being left. And it struck me that she was just as I am - because I, too, knew the fear of being the one left behind.

The brief moment of understanding – of sympathizing through unspoken context – lasted for only a second before her eyes drifted shut, her lips twitching into a half smile, and then she plunged the knife through her chest.

She hit the floor with a soft thump, breathing frantically like a fish out of water. She coughed softly, a thin line of blood trailing from her mouth to her chin, dropping down and staining the carpet. Her breathing slowed, turning from fervent gasps to weak pants. Her eyes flicked to me and she gave me a tired smile - a smile that showed the motherly care I used to know. Her lips barely moved, her voice was barely heard, but somehow I understood it.

"Rima,"

She focused on my eyes, and for a moment it felt she was looking through my mind. Then, satisfied, she let her lids flutter shut. She remained still for a few moments while I waited; waited for her lips to move again, waited for her eyes to open, waited for her chest to rise and fall in the telltale rhythmic pattern that showed she was alive, but she remained still. I ignored the growing patch of red beneath her and stared at her motionless form, willing her to move, urging her with my mind to say something more.

But she didn't move.

And I knew that was last thing she'd ever say to me.