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Don't you know that the kids aren't alright?

1991

The first time Deckard laid eyes on the girl who would eventually steal his heart was across the room of a very crowded house. It was Friday night. The party was loud, and people were either drunk, high, or passed out in a corner somewhere. Deckard was 18 and ready to begin his life. He was going to join the SAS. There had never been a doubt about that, but his mother had insisted he finish educating himself first.

His friend, Brixton Lore, was hosting this party. Where he was in that moment, Deckard didn't know. He found his attention suddenly captured by the girl who marched up to the couple making out, tapped the guy on the shoulder, and, when the guy stopped to look at her, punched him in the face as hard as she could.

"AAARRRGGGHHH!" he bellowed.

"Asshole!" the girl shouted at him. "We're done! You hear me? Done!" The guy didn't get a chance to recover before she punched him again. The other girl was simply staring, a smile on her face. It appeared she was enjoying the drama unfolding in front of her.

"Em, wait!" the guy called, but the punching girl was already pushing through the crowd. Deckard's eyes followed her as she went to the kitchen. What prompted him to join her there was a mystery.

"Beer?" Brixton asked, catching him while he was on the way.

"No," Deckard answered. He wasn't drinking tonight, but he rarely drank anyway. He'd seen first hand too often how alcohol could make someone mean, and he didn't want to find out if it made him the same way. His friend didn't push and soon found his girlfriend on the couch. Deckard went into the kitchen and saw that it was empty except for the girl. She had her back to him, hands on the counter. Her shoulders were heaving, sobs echoing across the room. Deckard felt bad for her in that moment. No one liked to find their significant other cheating on them. He moved behind her as she reached to wipe at her eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked, making her spin to see him, a startled expression crossing her face.

"I'm fine," she answered, jutting her chin out. Deckard took in her brown, shoulder length hair and blue eyes. She was definitely not giving away the fact that she was upset if she could help it. She crossed her arms tightly now.

Deckard didn't say anything as he went closer to her and looked at the hand she'd punched the guy with.

"Hurts more than you think, huh?" he asked, looking at her.

"No," she answered. He could tell she was lying again, trying to appear tougher than she was. He went to the freezer and pulled out a pack of frozen peas. She watched him as he came back and handed it to her. She took it and rested the bag onto her knuckles. She inhaled sharply at the contact of the cold.

"I'll let you in on a secret," he said.

"What's that?"

"It always hurts even after you've done it a few times," he told her. A smile was on his lips now, and she couldn't help but give a snort and work hard to hide her laughter.

"So, Tough Girl," he said. "What now?"

"He was useless anyway," she insisted. "It's not his first time. Trust me. He tried to pass off someone else's underpants as mine. Like, seriously, am I that stupid?"

"You definitely don't look stupid," he told her.

"How could they be my underpants when I hadn't even..." she trailed off. "You know what? We're not that friendly. I've said too much."

"He's more stupid than I realized," Deckard noted. She snorted again.

"You got that right."

"Em? Baby," the guy said now, coming into the kitchen. "That wasn't what it looked like." He stopped short, seeing Deckard. "What the hell is this?"

"Dustin, sod off," the girl (Em? Deckard wasn't sure if he was hearing that right) said. "We're over."

"You accused me of cheating, and here you are with this bloke," Dustin went on. "How is that right?"

"He's not...oh my God, Dustin. I don't have to explain anything to you," the girl said furiously.

"You keep your hands off my girl, eh?" Dustin said, getting into Deckard's face now. He went to take a swing, and Deckard had him down on the ground whimpering in pain in seconds. All it took was a jab to his throat and a well-placed kick to his kneecap. Dustin was gasping for air and coughing.

"Do yourself a favor and stay down," Deckard told him. He looked back at the girl, and she was looking slightly amused.

"I'm Emily," she said.

"Deckard," he said back.

"Oh, I've heard of you," Emily said. "Didn't you take down an entire gang all by yourself?"

"Word gets around," he commented with a grin.

"Decks," Brixton said, sticking his head into the kitchen. "We got a situation out here."

"You'll be all right?" Deckard asked Emily.

"Of course," she answered. Dustin was crawling out of the kitchen at this point, muttering nonsensical things to himself. Deckard gave her one last smile before leaving to find Brixton and whatever situation he was supposed to deal with.

...

Emily was intrigued. She walked past Dustin on the ground, who was still whimpering, and stood to watch what was going to take place in front of her. Deckard and his friend approached a gang of guys who were rowdy and starting a fight with another group of guys. There was a moment of attempted mediation, but then fists started flying, and people scattered out of the way to go watch from a safe distance.

This wasn't really Emily's scene. She didn't do parties. She definitely didn't do brawls. She had come here because her best friend, Holly, had told her Dustin was there with another girl. She craned her neck, looking. She didn't even see her friend. She surmised she had already left.

"Em," Dustin said, standing behind her again. He'd finally gotten off the floor but was still wincing in pain. "Baby, it really wasn't what it looked like."

"I don't care what it looked like," Emily retorted. "It's over." She started to move away from him through the crowd. She found the door and went outside. As much as Deckard intrigued her, she didn't want to hang around here anymore. She found her brother leaning against his truck down the road, waiting for her. He had dark brown hair, was almost six feet tall, and had a decent tan. His eyes were blue like hers. He was two years older than her.

"Find him?" he asked.

"I did."

"Feel better?"

"A little."

He opened the door for her, and she got in. When they were driving, she sighed and looked at him.

"Am I easy to forget, Rusty?" she asked.

"No," he answered, scoffing. "Definitely not."

"Dustin seemed to."

"He's an idiot. Don't worry about him."

Emily said nothing else. Her mind flashed back to Deckard. She knew he was one of the Shaw brothers. They had gone to different schools, so she had never met him in person before. She only heard rumors about him, and most of them implied he was a fighter and someone you didn't cross. Seeing the way he'd looked after her tonight, though, had made her wonder if there was more to him than that. She doubted she would see him again to find out, though.

...

"That," Brixton said, "was intense." He was holding the same bag of frozen peas Emily had for her hand to his face while Deckard leaned against the counter. He hadn't sustained the same amount of injuries that Brixton had, which he teased him about.

"I'm surprised no cops showed up," Deckard commented.

"Me too," Brixton agreed. He gave a groan as he moved the bag to another spot on his face. Deckard felt disappointed that Emily had disappeared before he got to talk to her again. Dustin had disappeared too. He looked at his watch. It was time to go home. He had to pick up his sister, Hattie, on the way, and he knew she'd be waiting. She was very punctual and very vocal when Deckard wasn't punctual.

"Who was that girl you were talking to earlier?" Brixton asked suddenly.

"I was hoping you'd know," Deckard admitted. "I only got her first name. Emily."

"Ah, you like her," Brixton said with a smile. "Sorry, mate. I don't know her." Deckard said nothing, but he didn't have to. His friend knew him quite well.

"Better go before Hattie rips my face off for being late," he sighed. He pushed off the counter and pulled his keys out of his pocket. Brixton followed him to the door.

"She definitely sounds feisty, that one," Brixton chuckled. He'd never met Deckard's family. They'd become friends in high school, and Deckard never brought his friends home. There was a very good reason for that.

"You don't know what she's like when she's pissed off," Deckard pointed out.

"I can imagine."

"See you later," Deckard said, going down the steps and over to his car. He couldn't stop thinking about Emily and whether or not he'd see her again.

...

"Dad? We're home," Emily called. Rusty dropped his keys in the bowl on the counter in the kitchen. The TV was loud in the living room. Emily shared a look with Rusty. It was hard to tell what mood their father would be in from one day to the next. He suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) from his time in the military. Neither Rusty or Emily knew what he'd experienced as he refused to talk about it. He wouldn't even do therapy. He used alcohol to cope, which frustrated them both because they knew what their father had been like before things got like this. They didn't know how to help him or get him to seek help.

"Dad?" Emily called again. Rusty went up the back stairs to his bedroom while she went to investigate her father's whereabouts. She found him sitting in his favorite armchair with a beer on the table next to him. He turned his head to look at her when she came in.

"Hello, luv," he said. By his voice, she could tell he was getting intoxicated. She groaned inwardly. When he got really intoxicated after dinner, the night was filled with his shouts and screams from nightmares.

"Hi, Dad," she said back. Ronnie Charlton gave her a weak smile before reaching to sip his beer.

"Get into a fight?" he asked, gesturing at her knuckles.

"Just slipped and fell," she lied, moving her hand to hide it behind her other one. "I'm all right."

"All studied up?" he asked next, referring to the exams she was preparing for.

"Yes."

"Good. Mind fetching me another beer? That's a good girl," he said, holding out his now empty beer bottle. Emily took it from him. He turned his head away from her back towards the TV. She knew he was done talking for the rest of the night. She reluctantly replaced his beer (he got belligerent and angry if she didn't) and went up to her bedroom. She sat on her bed, pulling out the magazines and studying them. Rusty appeared in her doorway, toothbrush in hand.

"You know," he said around it, "most girls have posters of boy bands on their walls."

"I like fashion," she told him. "Sod off." He smiled at her, toothpaste slipping out onto his lips a little as he did so. He went to go spit and rinse while she opened her favorite magazine. She knew every page by heart, but she loved looking at them regardless. Rusty came back after a minute and sat on the edge of the bed next to her.

"You've got that one so worn out I'm amazed it hasn't crumbled apart in your hands," he said, laughing. He went to snag it, but she smacked his hand and pulled it away.

"Leave it," she ordered.

"How's Dad?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Prepare for nightmares," she answered, not looking at him as she absently flipped her magazine's pages.

"Great," he sighed. "All right. Your turn or mine?"

"It's mine," she answered.

"You sure?"

"Yea. I don't mind. You've gotta get up early for work," she reminded him. It was one of his two jobs. He was working hard to save money so he could leave.

"So do you," he insisted.

"Not as early. Don't worry about it, okay?" she said a bit too sharply. He studied her briefly before reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. Emily knew what was coming next.

"You're too thin, Em," he said. "You sure you're eating okay?"

"I'm eating fine, Rusty," she answered.

"Promise me?"

"I promise." They looked at each other, and Emily knew Rusty could see right through her. She was trying, though. The doctor had warned her, and she didn't want to be hospitalized, so she kept her weight where he wanted it. Rusty saw to it that she did.

"So, what do you want to do for your 18th birthday?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Nothing. I'll be working anyway."

"That's no fun."

"There's no point," Emily said with a shrug. "I'm fine."

"How about I take you out to dinner?" Rusty offered.

"Oh, no..."

"Bowling then," he said. She opened and closed her mouth. It was no use trying to get out of it. Her brother was very insistent that she have some kind of fun or celebration on her birthday. She knew why. It was better than thinking about how it was the day their mother had walked out of their lives five years earlier.

"All right," she caved. "But only because you know how much I enjoy seeing you cry when I win." Rusty laughed out loud and gave her shoulder a slight shove. She smiled back, and he got to his feet and reached to tousle her hair fondly. She swiped at his hands but enjoyed it all the same, not that she'd ever admit it to him.

"It's a date," he said. "I'll leave you and your babies in peace now."

"Thank you," she replied. When he was gone, she looked back down at the magazine. She followed the career of Miranda Priestly closely. She had a large amount of Chic magazines. Her mother had given her the very first one she'd ever owned, which was the one she knew by heart. It seemed wrong to throw it away. Emily tapped her fingers against her chin as she thought. Rumor had it Miranda was going to be working at French Runway, so Emily was planning on looking into those magazines soon. It was Emily's dream to work for Miranda, and she was going to make it work come hell or high water. She was waiting to hear if she got in to university where she'd further her education in the fashion world, among other things.

She was going to get out of there and be far away from everything that made her feel so much pain all the time. She'd have her life and be free. She couldn't wait.

...

Deckard knew the moment he saw Hattie that she was mad at him. She was twelve going on twenty, and her hormones were starting to flare up and cause her to be either really angry or burst into tears for no reason at all. Deckard was very glad he was not a woman. He knew he couldn't do it.

"You're late," Hattie said, her tone very hostile as she yanked the door open.

"I'm three minutes late," he corrected. "It's not the end of the world."

"It could have been," she snapped. "The fate of the world could have been in your hands, and those three minutes you just dismissed could have been the crucial three minutes needed to save all of mankind."

"Don't be so dramatic," Deckard ordered. "Get in or walk home."

She got in and slammed the door shut, putting her seat belt on. She stared out the window as Deckard started to drive home.

"You stink like alcohol," she commented after a moment. "I thought Mum said no more parties?"

"I did not drink," Deckard told her, "and it wasn't my fault that my friend invited people over after I was already there."

"Liar," Hattie said. Deckard sighed, not engaging with her. He missed the version of his sister that didn't involve her picking fights with him. They used to do grifts and have fun. She used to imitate everything he did because she wanted to be just like him.

"What the hell?" he muttered to himself as he came across a hooded figure loping down the sidewalk. He recognized his brother's walk and backside anywhere.

"It's Owen," Hattie said, recognizing him too. Deckard pulled over and honked the horn, making Owen look at them.

"What are you doing?" Deckard called out his window. "Get in the car!"

"It's fine," Owen insisted.

"Get in the damn car right now," Deckard said sternly. Owen rolled his eyes, but he obeyed. He was fifteen now and thought he had the world by the ass. It didn't bode well for Deckard because he was the one taking the heat from their father for whatever trouble Owen got himself into.

"Did you get sprayed by a skunk or something?" Hattie asked Owen, waving her hand back and forth in front of her face. Deckard looked at Owen in the rear-view mirror, and his brother's gaze back confirmed that he was indeed high.

"Great," Deckard muttered.

"Decks, why does he smell like that?" Hattie asked.

"It's a new cologne I'm trying," Owen answered sarcastically before sniggering.

"Well, it's terrible," Hattie said, not catching on. Deckard rolled down all the windows to try and air out the smell. He hoped their father wasn't home tonight. Some nights they got lucky and had some peace and quiet. Harry Shaw was a violent man who enjoyed drinking, yelling, and smacking his wife around, all in that order. Deckard always intervened and earned some beatings too at times. He also took beatings for Owen whenever he got caught doing something wrong because he knew his brother would never survive them. It was the main reason he was looking forward to leaving, but he didn't want to leave his siblings behind to suffer Harry's wrath. He didn't know what to do.

They got home, and both Owen and Hattie got out of the car without a thank you. Deckard watched them walk towards the house together. Owen gave Hattie a bit of a shove at one point, and the two of them began flailing their arms at each other, attempting to inflict pain on the other. Deckard sighed again and got out. Then he noticed his father's truck.

It was going to be a long night.

...

The first scream made Emily start coming back from the realm of sleep slowly. The second scream had her wide awake. She flung the blankets off and rushed down the hall towards her father's bedroom.

"Dad?" she said, going in. He was thrashing and flailing on the bed, shouting and screaming. "Dad!" She went over to him and shook him awake. She dodged his flying hand when he sat upright. He was gasping for air.

"Mary?" he asked when he looked at her.

"No, Dad. It's Emily," she answered. She cursed her mother for the thousandth time since she'd left. Yes, it was hard caring for someone with PTSD and a drinking problem, but was she and Rusty not worth sticking around for? She could have taken them with her. Instead, she up and vanished, leaving a note that said she was sick and tired of it all and was heading for America.

"Oh, Emily," Ronnie said. "Did I wake you?"

"It's okay, Dad. You were having a nightmare," she said. It was very routine between them at this point.

"You're right. I was. Thank you," he said, clearing his throat. She noticed his hands were shaking. She wished she could help him, but she didn't know how to. She reached for his glass of water on his nightstand and handed it to him. Once he had some and calmed down, he sank back down into the pillows and closed his eyes. Emily then returned to her bed. She didn't mind caring for him, but sometimes she wished she could have just been a kid instead of playing adult to her own father.

She fell asleep dreaming of the day she'd be free.

...

Deckard caught his mother as she went toppling backwards. They crashed into the wall together from the momentum. Harry was standing in front of them, seething in an alcohol induced rage. He was shaking his right hand slightly from the pain of hitting Magdalene.

"You two deserve each other," he sneered.

"Don't," Magdalene said, clutching Deckard's arms. "Don't fight back, Decks."

"You wanna fight your old man?" Harry asked. "Come on, Decks. Let's go then."

"No," Magdalene said strongly, but Deckard was already pulling out of her grip and striding over to his father. He didn't even wait. He punched his father in the face as hard as he could, and Harry went stumbling backwards. Then he launched himself at Deckard, and the fight was on.

"Stop it!" Magdalene shouted.

Deckard was seeing red now. He'd had enough of his father's rages. He'd had enough seeing his mother with bruises on her face that she explained away to people who asked about them. He'd had enough of feeling like he couldn't fight back.

"Quite the arm on you," Harry noted when Deckard blocked a blow and dealt one back quickly. Harry wiped at the blood from his nose and chuckled. "I guess you are like me."

"I'm nothing like you," Deckard said through gritted teeth.

"We'll see," Harry smirked. He was fast, and he had Deckard by the throat up against the wall, squeezing hard and choking him.

"HARRY!" Magdalene shrieked.

"You wanna try me?" Harry asked Deckard. "Huh?"

Deckard seethed inside, knowing this was how Harry pulled rank. It was the first time he'd been put into a choke hold, though. He was trying not to feel afraid.

"Let him go this instant!" Magdalene was shouting. Deckard noticed Hattie and Owen slipping away hand in hand. They always went out to the old tree fort in the backyard when things got like this. They always checked with either Magdalene or Deckard through a look and a gesture before going, though, in case this was the time they'd have to grab their packed bags and leave. Magdalene had instructed they have these bags ready a few years ago, just in case. Why she didn't just take them and leave, Deckard had no idea. He guessed it might have something to do with the fact Harry would show his old self every now and then, and it was enough to keep giving her hope he'd eventually permanently stay that way. It didn't seem like he was going to, though, in Deckard's opinion.

"He's a tough guy," Harry said to her. "He can get out of this if he wants to." He squeezed around Deckard's throat tighter still, and Deckard felt like this could actually be the end. His vision started to get dark around the edges.

"HARRY!" Magdalene screamed. She went to pull at him, but Harry shoved her back with his elbow.

"Come on, Decks," he said, leering at him. "Show me what you got."

For some reason, the image of Emily came into Deckard's mind, and he knew he wanted to stay alive so he could try and see her again. Something about her meant freedom to him. He couldn't explain it. He mustered up all his strength and kneed his father hard in the gut before bringing his fists down on the pressure points on Harry's arms. When Harry's grip loosened, Deckard twisted his head free and rammed the heel of his hand into Harry's upper chest before kicking Harry's pressure point above his left knee. Harry went down onto his knees, and Deckard proceeded to punch him in the head as hard as he could. Harry hit the floor, and Deckard was left standing there breathing hard and feeling unsure of what was going to happen next.

"Decks," Magdalene said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off. Harry looked up at him from the floor, a smile growing on his lips.

"Well, son," he said. "It seems you'll be able to look after yourself in the real world." He got to his feet, wiped at his face, and went to go outside for a smoke. Deckard could feel the adrenaline wearing off now. He was shaking.

"Go," Magdalene told him. He didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed his keys and coat and went out the door. His father was at the other side of the house, thankfully.

"Owen? Hattie?" he called, and they appeared not long after. "Get in the car." Neither of them argued, and Deckard backed his car out of the driveway carefully. He looked at his brother and sister huddled in the backseat and knew he couldn't leave them. They wouldn't survive Harry. His journey into life was going to have to wait, as much as that pained him to think. He drove to their Aunt Beatty's house. It was their refuge in times like these. He knew she hated what was happening to them, but she was too afraid to do or say anything except give them shelter when needed.

"Decks?" Hattie's voice said then.

"Yea, Hat?"

"I love you."

And just like that, his sister was back. He could hear the fear in her voice, but she was trying to hide it.

"I love you too," he told her. He reached his hand back, and she clutched it with hers tightly.

He felt Owen's hand grab onto both of theirs a moment later.

I will be writing from everyone's perspectives in this story, unlike my other story. Have a great day :)