A word of warning here: This could be a tough chapter. The abuse depicted here is portrayed realistically and may be difficult to read about. The abuse itself is not graphic, but the psychological build-up might be a bit intense. Just so you know what's ahead.

Home life was tense over the next few days because Father had lost a case. More beer cans appeared around the house. He played with me less. I didn't feel like I could join him in front of the TV because the shows he had on strayed far from our usual fare. So I wandered quietly somewhere else to play with my toys alone.

In the evenings, Aaron spent every moment hunched over the kitchen table or in his room, scrambling to complete heaps of homework. I used to look forward to school very much, but now the idea worried me. If I ended up doing nothing but schoolwork all the time, they way Aaron did, I would just choose not to go after all.

I hardly noticed what Mother did anymore. She didn't hang around in the kitchen or tiny living area like she used to. I couldn't imagine what she needed to spend so much time in her room or in the yard for. Was I boring her?

Some evenings, Mother spent all her time in the yard or in her room. I forgot she was even home. Father would pull up, come inside with a heavy sigh, and yank off his tie before collapsing in front of the TV. Usually Aaron ignored him from the table in the next room. He was absorbed to the point of obsession in his schoolwork.

Lately, though, Aaron managed to pull himself from his studies long enough to engage me in a little game. While Mother was invisible and Father was still on his way home from work, Aaron challenged me to find the best and cleverest hiding place in the house. We called it "Cleaning the Playroom," because it marked the end of a day playing and because every cool game needs a codename. The rule was that if he couldn't find me in thirty minutes, I got to sleep in his big-kid bed under the awesome painting of pirates on a raid. Funny thing was, he rarely ever found me. I started to wonder if he was even searching and concluded that he just wanted to get rid of me.

The Hotchner family seemed severely disconnected in this time. I rarely saw my parents, and I spent most of my time wondering what kind of secrets the other three members of the family shared. I started to understand what loneliness felt like and how much it hurt.

One day I was elated to find Mother whitewashing the rotting backyard fence and asking for my help. The activity sounded tedious, but the prospect of joining Mother in some sort of activity could make me do almost anything. She gave me a brush, and together we painted for hours. Before long, even the excitement of doing something with Mother was barely enough to keep me working.

We finished the first can about the time Aaron came home. He smiled and waved at us before going inside, and I almost fell over in shock at the sight of his brilliant white teeth. Wait, did he really smile? Well, he probably just enjoyed seeing us do all the work.

Mother then asked me to fetch another can of paint. As I passed Aaron in the kitchen, I saw that any hint of a smile was already lost in his concentration of studying. His usual furrowed stare had taken over his features again. Oh well.

The basement was more of a cellar, really, and it stank of mildew and rat poison. Metal shelves held gardening equipment and power tools as well as more boxes than I would know what to do with. It wasn't a pleasant place, or very well-lit, so I hurried to find the white paint and hugged it in my tiny arms. I struggled to lift the can up the short wooden steps. As I neared the top, I noticed a rather significant crack in the lid. That was when I tripped.

I managed to catch myself, but the can rolled from my arms. I watched a smear of white paint splash from the crack onto the brownish carpet behind the sofa. I scrambled to right the can before anybody noticed.

But it was too late. I heard Aaron's pencil clatter on the linoleum in the adjacent kitchen and saw him spring to his feet. "Sean! Did you trip again?"

"I'm okay, I'm okay!"

I couldn't keep him back. Aaron stared in dismay at the cloud-shaped stain soaking into the carpet. I held the can tightly but could not wish away the mess. "I didn't! No, I didn't mean to! I'm sorry."

"Tell that to Mom." Aaron sounded frustrated, but also winded. I hadn't noticed the color drain from his face until I gathered the nerve to look up.

My main concern was for myself and my plea bargain. "I didn't mean to! Can we cover it? Will it come out? Should I wash it?"

"Just..." Aaron held up a hand. "Calm down. Take that can to Mother and tell her what happened. I can't believe you were so clumsy."

Neither could I. Four-year-old coordination was supposed to be more dependable than a toddler's, wasn't it?

The news of the mess made Mother gasp. She quickly recovered and wiped my confessional tears away. "Don't worry about it," she said. "We'll clean it up."

She walked with me back inside. There we saw Aaron on his knees, frantically piling paper towels on the spill and dabbing it up.

"Is it very much?" asked Mother.

Before Aaron could answer, we heard the sound of a car door slam. He looked up at Mother and me, and I saw a look of stark terror in his eyes. Though I didn't completely understand his need to be afraid, I felt the fear rubbing off on me. I clung to Mother's leg, whimpering, "What's gonna happen? Am I in trouble?"

"No, honey." Mother got down on my level and gave me a short lecture about being more careful. Though she seemed forgiving, I did not feel free from facing more trouble. All of a sudden, a clenching, icy fear spread up my chest. Father was home. Would he do to me what I had once seen him do to Aaron? What if he was in a bad mood again today?

The kitchen door opened, and everybody stood. I felt Mother's hands on my shoulders. They may have been the only thing keeping me upright. Father's stocky figure paused in the doorway, staring. His tie hung askew, as it always did lately. His black hair and goatee shone with sweat. And his eyes glided from me to Mother to Aaron before resting on the heap of paper towels on the carpet behind the rug.

I was too afraid now to even cry. Father let the door swing shut behind him, and then he slowly undid his tie. His gaze continued sweeping his family and the crime scene, but he said nothing. Dropping his tie and coat on the linoleum, Father sank into one of the kitchen chairs.

"So," he said.

My breath caught in my throat.

"Where's dinner?"

Mother walked around me to the kitchen. "It's coming, dear."

As she passed Father, he reached for her chin and pulled her close for a quick kiss. Still holding her face close to his, he said in a low, threatening tone, "It had better be."

I wasn't ready to feel relieved just yet. The pressure might be off of me for a moment, but I knew I couldn't escape forever.

With one sweep of his arm, Father knocked all of Aaron's books to the floor. The sudden thump startled me and sent my pulse racing afresh.

"Get these out of here," he ordered.

Aaron hurried to gather his scattered books and papers and carried the load upstairs. Mother busied herself scrambling eggs. I felt completely vulnerable standing alone in the living area.

"Set the table, Sean," said Father.

I obeyed. Whenever I set a dish close to him, I flinched, afraid he would strike. Still, no punishment.

Aaron returned and we all sat down to a meager supper. My stomach felt too twisted to eat. Across the table from me, I noticed Aaron hadn't touched his food either. Our parents ate in silence while my heart beat a staccato rhythm on my ribs.

When Father finished, he leaned back and unbuckled his belt. "Alright," he said. "What happened here?"

Mother's hand went to her face. I felt my head get dizzy. Aaron didn't look up from his plate.

"Anyone going to tell me?"

"It was paint, Dad," Aaron spoke up.

I felt ready to die as I waited for my brother to tattle on me.

"I spilled it."

I knew I hadn't heard him right. I looked up at him in shock. He maintained steady eye contact with Father, looking totally unafraid. Mother buried her face in her hands.

Too suddenly to process, Father's disposition changed. In one motion, he slipped off his belt, got to his feet, and grabbed Aaron by the collar. Mother made a weak grab for her oldest boy's hand, but Father yanked him away and dragged him to the basement. Apart from gripping the hand that dragged him, Aaron did not resist.

My jaw was hanging slightly and tears stood out in my eyes. "But, Mom, he can't... I did it!"

Mother wiped her eyes and sighed, resigned. "Come on, let's clean up."

"But..." I never would have expected to feel so defensive of my brother. The brother I hardly knew. The brother who rarely smiled and rarely cut me any slack. The brother who, deep down inside, I thought I hated! But now, how could Mother stand by and do nothing?

Then it began. Through the kitchen floor, I could hear the frightening, whiplike sound of what must have been the belt lashing through the air, followed by repeated whacks. A few voices, a thud, a shout. More lashes. On and on. I cowered, and Mother put her arms around me. Unable to hold it in, I started sobbing like I'd never sobbed before. And this time, for perhaps the first time, I actually felt very bad for Aaron. I didn't understand everything that was going on, but I knew that I wanted him not to be in any more pain. I wished he hadn't spoken up. I wished that I had taken the blame for my own mistake.

But at the same time, I knew that had I taken the blame, I would already be lying dead in that horrible basement.