Chapter Two
-Two years earlier-
"Juliana! Juliana!" Markas called. "Papa's home!"
"Markas, stop yellin'!" I scolded my eight year old brother.
"But Papa's home. I'm scared!"
"Why would you be scared?" I asked.
"I broke a dish. He's gonna hit me! He's gonna hit me, Juliana!"
"It'll be alright. I'll protect ya',"
"Thanks, Juliana! You're great!" he said.
"Get into the bedroom and read your books." I told him.
"Alright," he ran into our bedroom. I would take a bullet for that kid. Just then, our father threw the door open.
"Juliana! Supper, girl!" he shouted as he slammed his whiskey bottle on to the table and sat down. I could tell he was really drunk. I ladled the soup I had hurried to make into a bowl and placed it in front of him at the table.
"I fixed it just the way you like it, Papa. Try it!"
"This isn't bad, Juliana. Unlike your little twerp of a brother you got," my father replied.
"I'm glad you like it, Papa. How was your day?" I asked my drunken father.
"Fine, fine. Just the bastards pissing me off like every day at that damn factory. Where's that brother of yours?"
"In our room, Papa. Should I go get him?" I asked.
"NO!" he barked. I flinched at his shout. "I've got somethin' to talk with him about," he staggered over to our bedroom door
"The dish?"
"How do you know about the dish?" he asked me.
"Markas told me,"
"He told ya', huh? He better not be tellin' you anythin' else,"
"About what?"
"Nothin' you need to worry about," he replied. He walked into our room to see Markas reading on his bed.
"What the hell are you doin', boy?" he yelled.
"Readin', Papa," he whispered, very frightened like.
"Get over here! Why are you readin'?" father asked.
"I told him to, Papa. I'm sorry," I said.
"You little bitch! Haven't I told you to not fill his head with nonsense?"
"Yes, Papa. You have," I said dejectedly.
"I know I have. I also know that you need to be taught a lesson, girl!" He sped over to me and threw an uppercut to my jaw, sending me to the floor. I felt my jaw and tasted blood in mouth. I tried not to cry, but I couldn't help it. The tears rolled down my face, but between sobs, I called, "Markas! Run! Papa please don't hurt him! Please!"
"Shut up!" my father yelled. He picked me up by my hair and threw me across the room. Markas jumped up and tried to hit our father. Papa back-handed Markas, but my eight-year old brother stood his ground, staggered back, but stood his ground. I got up slowly and walked toward my tormenting father. I picked up the rolling pin I had used to roll the dough for the pie I was baking and hit him over the head with it. He fell to the ground like a stone. Mission: Accomplished.
"C'mon, Markas! Let's go. He can't hurt us anymore if we run!" I said, grabbing some food, money, and taking my bow and arrows off the wall. I was the best archer in all of Russell, PA. I took Markas's hand, we looked back at the little cottage we had lived in through our mother's death, my first kiss, Markas's first lost tooth, and all of our ritual beatings we suffered nightly. We turned back around and walked through the door. As long as we were away from Russell, our cruel father couldn't harm us anymore. At least I thought.