Worth The Fight

Chapter 2

Wishing I could erase tonight's event, I feel the tears falling from my eyes as I pull over in front of my building.

My hands clutch the steering wheel as I try to pull myself together, but the sobs that leave my throat are stronger.

After what feels like an eternity, my eyes are finally dry, but my heart remains heavy, burdened by the memory of that terrifying encounter.

It's been forever since I cried this hard, and all I want right now is to get inside my apartment, crawl under my covers, and shut out the world. But my little brother texted me earlier, saying he would be over, and the last thing I need is for him to worry about me.

Fortunately, I have a bottle of water in my bag, a small lifeline to help me regain my composure. I splash some on my face, the cool liquid a soothing balm against my heated skin. With trembling hands, I retrieve some paper tissues from my bag to dry myself.

This makeshift remedy will have to do for now. I've endured a grueling double shift today, so if my brother asks, I can always chalk up my appearance to sheer exhaustion.

Stepping inside my place, I see my little brother sprawled on the couch. "Hey, what are you doing up so late?" I ask.

He's engrossed in a shooting game on his phone but stops when he sees me. "I cooked you dinner," he answers, ignoring my question.

"I thought you were staying with our father this weekend? Did your friends cancel the game tomorrow?" I ask, deliberately avoiding the fact that it's way past his bedtime. I can feel his presence as I walk towards the kitchen, his footsteps padding softly behind me.

"Dad was drunk again, and I was tired of listening to his shit," he says, making me pause.

"Did he do something to you?" I go to him, looking for bruises under his hood or something. The last time he mentioned our father drinking, I noticed he was walking funny. He had brushed it off, claiming he'd fallen while playing basketball with his friends, but since then, I've been watching him closely.

If there were an award for the worst father of the year, ours would undoubtedly win it every single time. The day our mother died ten years ago marked the beginning of his descent into alcoholism. Not a single day goes by when he's not either drunk after work or on his way to becoming so.

I was fifteen and Marcus was only five when she passed away, and I still can't get over her death. It happened in the blink of an eye – one moment I was a carefree teenager, and the next, I was a mom with a little boy of my own.

Don't ask me how I survived finishing school because the truth is that I have no clue. I just know I have worked my ass off so Marcus can have a better life.

As a waitress first and now a bartender, my wallet isn't exactly overflowing with cash. But thanks to the generous help of my best friend's grandparents, I managed to rent a small place when I turned eighteen, allowing Marcus and me to have some much-needed peace and stability.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to have my little brother living with me since I moved out. Our father had somehow managed to clean up his act just enough for the judge to grant him full custody.

It's been seven years since I left my father's place, and I've hated every single day when Marcus is there and not here with me.

Because even though my little brother swears our father has never laid a finger on him and pretty much ignores him when he's at his place, I can't help but worry.

Like right now, for example, when he's trying to evade my questions.

"You'll tell me if he ever does anything to you, right?" I ask, my voice filled with concern as I gently touch his face, urging him to look at me. "Marcus?" I press both hands to his cheeks, silently pleading for him to open up.