A Bird in Flight | ✔︎

Chapter five: Around the circle again

Callan

RAIN DRUMS SOFTLY against the roof, drizzling down my bedroom window. The trees outside are shivering in the gloom of the growing darkness, mirroring my miserable mood.

I sigh, chewing on the end of my pen, one of my earbuds dangling down my shirt as I struggle to concentrate. My stomach growls loudly and I feel myself shaking with hunger.

"Fuck it," I mutter, throwing the schoolbook and pen down. I swing my legs over my bed and carefully open my door. I tiptoe as silent as possible across the landing, praying to God that when I head down the staircase none of the stairs creak and wake him.

I manage to get down the stairs successfully, keeping my hands out in front of me as I maneuver my way through the darkness as quiet and cautiously as I can. I find myself grinning. Despite the circumstances, I feel like fucking James Bond crawling through shadows and booby traps to claim his prize or save the world or some shit. We have one thing in common, James Bond and I: We both are putting our lives at risk.

I duck into the kitchen and am relieved to find a packet of cookies sitting on the marble countertop. I grab a handful of them, careful to not spill any crumbs or leave any evidence. I also find a block of chocolate in the cupboard and take that too.

That's when I notice the lounge room light is on. Shit, my father must've come back from the bar—where he both drinks and works at—late. I'm standing in dangerous territory. I need to get out of here. And fast.

I take a step to my left and crash almost comically loud into the metal bin. Smooth. I shove my already melting food into my pockets and dust my hands off, bracing myself for it.

"Callan Beckett," my dad calls in a low but dangerous tone from the lounge room. "In here. Now."

Cursing in my head, I obediently cross the kitchen, stepping into the circle of light in the lounge room.

My dad is sitting in the recliner chair on the opposite side of the room. He's holding a half-full bottle of whiskey in his hand, an empty dinner plate on the floor beside him, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Coarse black hair flicks up at his neck and ears as he sets his stormy gaze on me. I inherited my father's startling green eyes and his muscular physique.

"What are you doing?" he snaps, his demon-like silhouette rising from the recliner. I swear I occasionally catch a glimpse of horns driven into the side of his head.

"Just getting a drink of water," I say quickly, wondering if I ran for it, if he would catch me.

"I thought I told you not to leave your room or am I mistaken?" he says in a raised voice, starting towards me. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, the butt still burning crimson.

I can feel all the blood thundering in my ears; can feel the adrenaline coursing like fire through my veins as my fight or flight sense kicks in. My mouth is dry as I respond. "I know, sir...you aren't mistaken. I was just thirsty..." My voice is shaking nearly as bad as my hands.

"Come here," my dad orders, his pupils huge, his hands clenched into fists. I don't move. In an instant, his meaty hand is around my neck. I feel myself being slammed against the mantelpiece.

His breathing is uneven and ragged, hot against my face as he tightens his grip around my throat. "What did you steal? What the fuck did you steal, you thieving little shit?" he screams, his harsh green eyes, inches from my face, pouring into mine as rage rolls off his body like a drumfire. He tightens the grip around my neck.

"In—my—pockets!" I manage to get out between my strangled protests. My vision is blurring and turning black around the edges

He pulls his elbow back over his shoulder and swings it around, slamming his fist into my face. He uncurls his fingers from my throat and my head catches on the mantelpiece on the way down.