“Yeah, I’m pretty sure we’re out of eggs, too.” I close the fridge and switch the phone over to my other ear.
     “Okay sweetie, anything else?”
     I jump at the sound of a door flinging open and heavy, sloppy steps coming down the stairs. My heart sinks.
     “Um,” I lick my lips.
     “Rosie!” He sways into the kitchen, “I need to talk t’ you.”
     “Is that Danny? Does he need anything?” Mom asks on the other end of the line.
     I lay the phone down on the counter and slowly turn around.
     He stares at me, bloodshot eyes unblinking. “You took my money again,” he barks, shuffling a few steps closer.
     I struggle for words, though we both know this is to be a one-sided conversation; he and I both know I’d never dare step into his room to take his money. But this is how the game goes.
     I watch his hands uneasily as they curl into bony fists.        “Dann-”
     He hits me in the stomach. This time feels worse than usual. It hits deeper than flesh and resounds in my bones with a defeated ache I think stems from my heart; everything is spinning and pulsing so my judgment can’t be trusted. With another blast from his fist I crumple like a wadded paper towel and sink down to the tile with a heaving stomach.
     “Jus’ ask next time, alright?” He lowers to a crouch, but still I’m in his shadow. “That’s all I’m saying Rosie. Have some manners.”
     “Okay.” I stare at a tile beyond us.
     “Rosie,” his voice swings with malice. “Look at me when we’re talking.”
     My gaze snaps to his big black eyes and flicks over his face; his already sharp 18-year-old cheekbones are outright piercing with his jaw clenched like that.
     “I’m sorry Danny,” I say as I turn my steadying fingertips over so my nails can dig into the tile.
     He smirks a little and the kitchen light catches on the stubble on his chin. “You can’t expect to go unpunished.”
     My pulse rises as he stands and I wonder if I ought to as well; I’d rather not fall again so I wait, replaying over and over in my head his promise to never do it again. My fingers brush across my stomach and I wonder if the memory of that promise might just be a creation of my hopeful 13-year-old imagination.
     “It was eight bucks – one more settles the score. Get up.”
     I pull myself up but my heart stays on the ground. Perhaps that’s why I’m numb as I look into those eyes again.
     Tensing, crunching, cringing, leaning, grimacing, falling, not breathing. I grip the counter with pink-painted nails, hurting so much and knowing I can’t take any more. I hope the bruises show this time so they’ll believe me, just for once. I should know that’s wishful thinking. I’d call for my dad but he’s two years out the door. If she were home I’d scream for mom and she would finally see her sweet Danny is the one who’s been lying for two long years.
     “Stop.” It’s a pathetic gasp, but audible.
     He does for a moment, but not in the way I mean. He shuffles his feet and I can hear the smile in his voice. “What?”
     “Stop it,” I look up, the feeble feeling in my heart now replaced by an unquenchable heat. It runs even to my fingertips. “You’re hurting me, Danny!”
     He blinks for a moment as if I told a stupid joke. “You took something from me, remember? You asked for this.”
     My breath finally regained, I draw myself up rather crookedly, but as confidently as I can. “I never took anything from you.” His eyes darken, but I’m already too far in to give out now. “Not a thing. All I’ve ever asked for is for you to please, just stop.”
     It’s quiet. One of the lights flicker a little, and the TV from upstairs streams indistinguishable lines from his horror movie. But I have all of his attention now. I’m finally standing up for myself.
     He spreads his fingers out on the counter, leaning against his hand. He blinks slowly as he tilts his head. “You think you’re the victim, huh?”
     I flush with color but maintain my steady gaze.
     He pushes off the counter. “You think you’re better than me?”
     “No, Danny, I just-”
     “Shut up!”
     And I do.
     “You’re my sister.” His rounded nose and stubbly chin come close to mine. “So if my life is tough, yours should be too.”
     The look in his eyes says it all. I know that Dad leaving did more harm to him than to me. He’s always trying to drown his monsters in some way, but even with the sting of his punches I know that I love him. Despite it all I love him, but I’m afraid. I don’t cry; he cries enough for the both of us behind closed doors. Now the throb of injustice drowns out the ache of my love for him.
     Abruptly, he pulls back. I sink to the ground holding my head with both arms, fingers clutching at the nape of my neck. There’s a click when I finally uncoil to peek up at him. His eyes gaze somewhere beyond me. The click I assumed was my ribs scraping each other as I uncurled my torso. Now – seeing his gawk – I register in my mind that the click is the familiar sound of a high heel colliding against the tile flooring.
     In thankful disbelief, I writhe around and stretch my arm out to reach for the welcomed heels and wrap my arms around the safety of my mother’s ankles. I pull myself closer as a sob racks my body. Not a word is said because there are no words. Instead, I hear my cell phone on the counter beep as she disconnects from our call to dial a three digit number. She reaches down to me, running her fingers through my hair.
     “So it’s true.” She breathes. “I heard the whole thing.”
     I nod, she cries, he leaves. For once, he’s the one cornered with nowhere to run. For once I finally took my stand. And it’s the best day of my life.