My darlings! Good to see you again. Please, for the love of Gandhi, REVIEW. It would mean everything to me. I shall send you invisible warrior pixies and such it you do.

Love ya!

FANG'S POINT OF VIEW

As I reached for the door handle, I noticed my hand was shaking.

Dang it. Pull yourself together, c'mon. Think about Ella. Do it for Ella.

I closed my eyes, took a silent breath and entered my house. It stunk of alcohol and body odor. The house had nearly been torn apart, like a hurricane had blown through. I noticed a hole in the wall beside an upturned chair. The drapes that were always closed were on the floor, ripped off their rods. There was a puddle of beer near my feet as well as a bottle broken in half.

Knowing I would be cleaning it all soon anyway, I picked up the beer bottle pieces and went to the kitchen to throw them away. Near the kitchen was the family room, where my father was passed out on a couch. I decided to clean as much I could before he woke up, giving him less to be mad at me for and less for him to use as ammo.

I started with the main hall, mopping the beer. Next was the sitting room. I rearranged the furniture to where it went, put the curtains back up as well as I could manage and moved a chair in front of the hole in the wall. I could fix that later.

While I was doing dishes in the kitchen, I heard my father groan and get up. He sounded very hungover, and part of me hoped he would go straight to bed and ignore me. Of course, this is my life, so that didn't happen.

"Oh. So you decide to come back, eh? You and Ella just run away like you own this place, and return at your leisure? I don't think so, you little punk!" he threw his beer, the bottle hitting me in the shoulder which was still healing. I sucked in a breath as beer spilled on my shirt and down my jeans. My father laughed.

"What? Don't like that? Don't like that, Nick? Huh?" he taunted me, walking towards me. He grabbed me by my shirt collar and turned me to face him.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he spat, throwing me back against the oven. I smacked my head on the vent above the stove and sank to the floor. My father kicked me in the stomach repeatedly, each blow making my vision go fuzzy with pain from the cuts I still hadn't recovered from. My father wasn't finished though- he reached over to where I was doing dishes and grabbed a cast iron skillet.

Thing about cast iron is that it's heavy and sturdy. I had only been hit a couple times with them, but the things hurt like you know what. I cringed, waiting for impact. I felt the skillet hit my lower legs once, twice, three times. On the third, I was afraid my ankle was broken. My father then scoffed, disgusted.

"Clean this up you ungrateful faggot," he slurred, tossing the skillet that landed partially on my hands, and partially on my head. I didn't move until I heard his bedroom door slam shut. I rolled onto my back and sighed. I lifted my ankle, wincing at the sharp pain. I dared to move my foot, experimenting.

Okay. Okay, not broken. That's good. I finished my systems check-nothing broken, nothing bleeding enough to need stitched more than they needed them before. I was fine. I could heal. I got up and put the skillet in the sink. I leaned against the counter and pulled out my phone to text Ella.

'Coast is clear.'

Twenty minutes later, Ella slipped through the door. She helped me up the stairs to her room, where I sat on her bed. If my father awoke to realize she was here, I needed to be around. Ella wrapped my ankle, informing me it was probably sprained.

We stayed in her room for over an hour, just to be safe. While we waited for the tell tale sign of popping knuckles and footsteps, Ella spoke up.

"Fang, you know I don't agree with your fights," she said. I opened my mouth to apologize but halted when she put her hand up.

"I've seen violence break people, Fang. You're one of those people, Fang. I know how much it hurts you physically and emotionally. That being said, I have done a lot of thinking since your last fight and you know I am completely aware you will be eighteen in a year. With our impending circumstances, I don't think it's fair to ask you to protect me any longer," her voice cracked and she took a shaky breath.

"Fang, you need to teach me how to fight like you do. Or, at the very least, defend myself."

I said nothing. I searched Ella's face. In it I could see anger in our situation, guilt for asking, but most of all, I saw fear. My sister was terrified I would run off as soon as I got the chance. She didn't want to believe or assume I would leave here, but how could she help it? She had a mother who ditched us right after she was born and a father who was only capable of aggression. I was the only person she really could connect with, and I knew she was afraid I'd be just like the rest of them.

I smiled sadly at my sister, looking into her dark eyes.

"Ella," I said seriously, "I will never, ever leave you here by yourself. You will never have to face him defenseless. I would rather spend my life in prison than let him get anywhere near you. I know I will can leave the minute I turn eighteen, and I might get kicked out. But if I leave, you're coming with me. That's it."

My face must have shown my hard set determination, because Ella nodded, doing her best to keep a brave face on. She rested her head on my shoulder, silently thanking me.

I vowed to myself that if I wasn't dead by the time I turned eighteen, Ella and I would be leaving, together. The cops can suck it-she couldn't live with him, She needed to stay safe, and it had always been my job to ensure that.

So there.