Sean
He was 13. Watched Tracker stumble into the tiny living room in the tiny house. Watched him stumble in drunk.
"Hey, Kid," Tracker said, slurring the words, and Sean nodded. Watched him pass out on the couch and watched the bottle of vodka roll from his hand. Sean crept over and picked it up, took a sip, felt it burn down his throat and into his stomach. Took another sip. And then another.
Ellie
She was 13. She watched as her father packed up for another mission. Watched her mother watching him with her large glassy eyes. Her father seemed so calm about this. So resolved. Despite the quietness her mother was anything but calm. She twisted her fingers together. She pulled on the edge of her blouse. She was losing it.
"Bye, honey," her father said, kissing the top of her head where the part was. She felt the kiss on her exposed scalp.
"Bye," she said, and watched her mother shift from foot to foot, watched her eyes flick here and back again.
Craig
He was 13. He watched his dad lose his cool. When he was angry it made whatever room they were in seem smaller. Craig watched him come toward him and something about it seemed like slow motion. He was trapped, the wall at his back. He couldn't move anyway. Frozen.
"Goddamnit, Craig!" His father's voice, so deep with anger but cracking around the edges. Craig looked up at him, could see his father's eyes behind the black frame glasses. He could feel the hard back of his hand hitting him, making him rock back. He crouched, cowered near the wall. Nowhere to go. He knew that. He felt the kick in his ribs, felt the kick to his back. His muscles knotted up with the blows.
Peter
He was 12. He stood in his bedroom but he could still hear his parents fighting. Throwing things. Screaming. Fighting about everything imaginable. Him. Money. The house. Careers. Affairs. Whores and liquor. Lying and cheating and duplicity.
"You lying son of a bitch," his mother said to his father.
"Daphne, you'll pay, you won't get a dime-"
"You think I want any of your money, you asshole? What in God's name was I thinking of when I ever married you?"
Finally he put his hands over his ears, unable to listen anymore.
Sean
He closed his eyes. Everything seemed to be spinning and closing his eyes only made it worse. It was the alcohol, making him feel this way. He wished he'd never drank any of it. He groaned, the nausea hitting him, seeming to flow through him, to be traveling a path in his body, a sneaky path. There was a sour taste in his mouth. He ran for the bathroom as a glut of alcohol and food poured from his mouth and into the toilet. The splashing sound made him feel even sicker. He hung onto the sides of the toilet, aware of the cold feeling of the porcelain. He was aware of the cold feeling of the bathroom floor beneath his feet. It seemed like the bathroom floor might be a good place to sleep.
Ellie
Her mother had sort of dissolved into a bottle of whiskey. Her dad had got on a train and went away. Maybe he'd never come back. Maybe he'd come back in a tiny metal container, just ashes. In her room, the lamp spinning and flashing those shapes across her walls. Music playing, something melancholy and filled with flutes and long pauses. She sat on the floor, took out her razor, and drew a line along the inside of her arm. She felt the sharp sting, felt the blood bubble to the surface. Felt her mind finally give way, finally let go of the images that were haunting her. She felt the bleeding surface of her arm acutely, like she couldn't feel anything else. The blood ran down her arm and dripped to the floor and she drew another line with her razor above that one.
Craig
His eyes were closed but he heard the heavy footsteps going away. He breathed in, and it hurt to breathe. His ribs ached. He knew his dad had walked away, he heard him. He knew it. Still, he didn't want to open his eyes. Maybe he was still there. Maybe he'd kick him again, maybe he'd strap him. He squeezed his eyes shut.
After a time Craig opened his eyes. He might have fallen asleep or passed out, he wasn't sure which. Still afraid, but he opened his eyes anyway. He was alone. He sighed in relief and stood up, felt dizzy and put a hand on the wall to steady himself. Felt a wave of blackness wash over him, felt a sharp pain in his side. Slowly he walked to the stairs and held onto the railing and went up to his room.
It hurt to do everything. To move, to walk, to undress. His tears pissed him off and he swore at his father under his breath. Took a piss and stared in horror at the blood. Being kicked in the kidneys could do that, he thought. Being kicked so hard and for so long could do that.
Peter
He leaned up against his bedroom door and hugged himself, his knees drawn up. He was 12 and understood that his parents' problems weren't all about him, but some of it must be. He bit his lip and rocked, listened to the endless fight go on and on. If they could only shut up for one minute. One minute of peace, that's all he asked. His mother's piercing scream reached him, his father's answering baritone. He hated both of them.