Fighting For Hope

Chapter Twelve

"I can't get you out of my mind."

—

TYLER'S POV

Her face painted in utter dissatisfaction while standing beside her stepfather, with a few visible bruises on her face. My chest hurt for her failed effort.

I removed the fragmented shards stuck in my arm while conveying noises of pain.

"Calvin." Her mother widened her eyes, looking at our dishevelled appearance. "I told you not to touch my daughter."

The stepfather did not bother to hide his anger as he glared at both me and Hope before leaving to the dining table. I try to stand, cautious not to injure my arm in the process. From the corner of my eye, Hope stopped her mother from crouching down and assisted to grab the shards. As much as she despises her for ending her father's life, she would not risk losing another parent or her future brother. It is a magnificent sight to behold. I got on my knees and collected some too.

Like the last drop of a perishing waterfall, crimson red trail down my arm. Before it stained the floor, I took a napkin from the marble counter and applied pressure onto it.

"Are you alright?" Hope whispered just as her mother soundlessly left. The brief apologetic look that shimmered in Hope's eyes concealed just as it showed. I nod in reply, getting rid of the trash in my palms.

"Let's get back, Angel." I help her to her feet, and we return to the table, where Calvin was clutching his wife's arm ruthlessly. He dropped it as we entered the living room.

"I apologize for his behaviour." She eyed the fresh scars on my upper arm, which my sleeves covered. My mind wandered to her fresh wounds. It was where Calvin grabbed a second ago.

"Don't bother," Calvin interjected, rolling his eyes. We ate dinner in silence, and I shifted uncomfortably every time I saw his sight set on me, narrowing as if I were a mystery.

I occasionally flinched when I moved my forelimb, feeling a stab whenever I did. I attempted suppressing the pain, but an inevitable wince would occur occasionally. It looks terrible, and I know it will leave a scar.

"Hope," her mother called out of nowhere when we were finishing up our meals. "Would you come over again in two weeks? Your brother will be born by then."

Hope looked reluctant but should be aware that it isn't her parents she would be visiting next. Instead, it would be an innocent new-born who she will call her sibling. She came to a decision and accepted the invitation, seeming dreadful. I understood her point, having to return to visit her father after her plan failed miserably is rather horrendous. He now knows she has bad intentions.

"I suppose that's a surprise," Hope's father taunted. Hope stayed silent, ignoring her stepfather's unnecessary comment and continued with her dish, which was close to empty.

Right after she finished the last scoop, she stood, knocking over the chair behind her and made her way swiftly to the kitchen. I copied the move more calmly. Hope was impassive, but her clenched fist told otherwise.

She was in the same room with the murderers who killed her father. Imagining what it felt in her place is an impossible task. I sighed, walking up to her to tap her on the shoulder.

She turned, glaring bitterly. Her face only softened when she realized it was me. She opened her mouth, seeming as if she wanted to say something. Her eyes lingered on my arm, where the blood had dried. "I'm sorry," she said, her eyes showing those of despair. Her voice was a clear definition of sincerity. "I really shouldn't have dragged you into my mess."