1

She was sitting on a rigid, cold windowsill, leaning against the wall. She was staring through the window on the neglected yard. A few years ago the red roses had been blooming there; they was loved by her mother, but the mother had gone, as well as the flowers. It was raining outside, and the drops were flowing down the window as slowly as the tears on her blushy cheeks. She was crying in the silence, watching golden leafs swirling beyond the window.
Having heard the bed squeaking, she wiped off the tears rapidly. She was hiding them from him. She didn’t want him to see her in this condition. He had enough worries on his head. She glanced at him; he was lying on a bed, immersed deeply in his own thoughts. His dun hair was falling on his forehead, but he didn’t take it off. He was staring with his empty look at the ceiling, and his blue irises were shining with tiny grey specks. They always appeared when he was thinking about something important. He was wearing a very stretched black T-shirt, carelessly pushed into the grey, old tracksuits. Next to him there was a phone, from which sad, depressing sounds were coming out.
“What are you thinking about?”
This question has tormented her for some time, and the growing silence has added to it even more. The doubts that haunted her were like tortures. She needed variety, change, she had to do something. She straightened up, throwing her legs off the windowsill. He responded after a long time with a tired, trembling voice.
“I’m thinking about her.”
She knew who he was talking about. She asked no more questions. She slowly approached the bed, crouched and squeezed her fingers on his hand. She quickly blinked; she really couldn't cry. She had to be strong. For him.
“They know why?”
“No,” he coughed up quietly, with difficulty swallowing saliva. “They are still looking for anything, a trail, a clue. They said that if they had not found the reason by the end of the month, they would stop the investigation.” He was unable to pronounce the word he had so much suffering with; he was unable to mention her name. “I would like to see an end to this. I have enough of that uncertainty.”
The girl's heart was fluttering at those words that reflected her feelings so much. She softly moved the phone and lied down next to her brother, cuddling up in him. He embraced her gently, insecurely, and then pulled her up. She felt his tears in her hair.
“Please, don’t cry,” she whispered. “I will be always here, with you. At all costs.”
This promise was very important, and it had to be said. She couldn't leave him, just as he couldn't leave her. They could not let this happen; they were supposed to be together.
She felt him sobbing. She squeezed even more to him, whispering calming words into his ear. She wanted to thank him. He always defended and comforted her. She admired him for his composure and coolness, for his incredible strength and fortitude. His tears still flowed down her hair, mixed with brown strands, but his cry slowly softened, until finally there remained only an uneven breath calming down in the accompaniment of the sad melody. Later only drops of rain could be heard, drumming up the windowsill.
He knocked her out of thinking with one silent whisper.
“I will be with you too. At all costs.”
They fell asleep with their promises, swinging with the music of autumn rain. They forgot for a moment what was waiting for them.

They were woken up by the loud slam of the door. They jumped at the same time, knowing perfectly what it meant. A nightmare that repeats itself every day. They heard someone walking around the house, making a noise. Sound of broken glass. Clump of heavy boots climbing wooden stairs.
“Hide,” he mumbled.
She wanted to protest, but he looked at her with silence commandment in his eyes. With her heart pain and growing guilt she turned towards a huge oak wardrobe. The steps were getting louder and louder, and dangerously close to the door. She ran up to the wardrobe, throwing her brother the last glance over her shoulder. She closed the wing behind her at the same time as the door from the room hit a wall with a deafening moan.
It was her brother who had to deal with the monster most often. That was how it had to be. The gap between these two wings provided sufficient field of vision to see an incoming man. In one hand, he held a bottle of beer, while in the other hand, he leaned firmly against the wall, trying to stay vertical. He was drunk. Again. Her brother got up on an equal footing, waiting for a move, a word or a blow.
“W-where is she?” father mumbled.

The father should be an authority. Someone the children could love and admire. Roger Walker was definitely not a good parent. Since his wife died, he has been drunk, he left his job, and his friends. He was leaving the house in the evening and coming back in the morning. He was drunk when he was entering his children's room, but not to kiss them for a good day. He came for a completely different purpose. He wanted to get rid of the unspeakable grief, anger, which made him angry from the inside. In spite of the years, his feelings didn't diminish, but only increased at the sight of his children. Especially the daughter, so similar to the deceased mother.
“Where the fuck is she?!” he bellowed.
The son stood in front of him with courage, looking straight into his face. He saw in his eyes hatred and repulsion. He knew it too well. He knew this gaze filled with grief, pain, and longing. And anger that was not even described. He also had no doubt that it would accompany his father until his death.
“What do you want from Nassie?”
“Where is she?” he repeated, a bit quieter that time. He saw his son, eyes so similar to those he once loved. . . it hurt. Blue irises, locks of hair reminiscent of lost love. He sipped from the bottle.
The boy tried to take it away from him, but in vain. He pulled it again.
“Do you think I don't know she's hiding in a wardrobe?”
“Leave her alone!” he snapped, and approached him, raising his hands in a gesture of capitulation. This time he didn't try to take away his beer. He wanted to take him as far away from that room as possible; as far away from her as possible. “Let’s go to the living room.”
The man broke out with a scream and swung with an empty bottle. The sound of broken glass banged. The young fell with a hiss, grabbing his arm. It was bleeding.
“You won’t tell me what to do!” he roared. “That bitch is going to leave you, just like your mother. They do it all the time!”
Alcohol has shattered him and covered his thoughts with fog. After all, he still loved his wife, even after her death. It was governed by feelings full of destructive bitterness. He was destroyed by the grief in his heart and by the feelings that had been nurtured for many years.
He smiled terribly, showing his yellow teeth. He left. He went there for something - something to do. But what?

She ran out of the wardrobe terrified, almost tripping over on her own feet. She ran to her brother. This time he didn't try to suppress the tears that began to flow down her tiny face. Short sobbing came out from her when she kneeled next to him. The floor was sticking from the spilled beer, and the pieces of broken glass were all over there.
Some of them were lying in his bleeding arm.
“Oh God! Ian, you have to go to the hospital!”
“Nassie, it’s nothing serious,” he moaned. “I'll only go for a first aid kit.”
He knew his sister was right, he should have done it, but he couldn't do it. He had to keep the money for something else. For something that would change their lives for the better – for something that would make them safe. "Soon," he thought.
“I'll go!” She vigorously shook her head. “You don't move.”
“You won't leave the room when he is there. I don't want to, I can't see how. . .,” he mumbled, remembering what his father did one day to her. He didn't want to allow this to happen again.
He has already lost someone for the second time, and she has lost someone only one time. Only his sister stayed with him and he wanted to live for her, for her he wanted to get out of bed every day and he loved only her. He didn't want to think about what would happen if he lost her. This thought appeared only occasionally and frightened him. He was afraid that he would become the same as his father, like the monster that had done so much harm to them. He was afraid that he would start drinking, just like him. They had the same genes, why not so?
“I'll just slip out to the bathroom. He won't notice me.”
“ This is too risky,” he grunted, moving his arm.
The girl stood up quickly and came towards the door. She turned around only for a moment, assuring that she would come back soon. She had to help him somehow. If he didn't want to go to hospital, she should stifle her fear and go down to get this first-aid kit. She was afraid that she would come across her father again – and she had the opportunity to feel his anger on her own skin. The purple hematomas bloomed under her skin – for unknown reasons only her face was spared.
She put her head out of the door, looking to the sides. The corridor was empty, she could go. Ian didn't manage to protest, so she left. She trod carefully. Her heart was beating quickly, as if it were about to jump out of her tiny chest. The breath became uneven, shallow and anxious. Is the attack of panic approaching? She accelerated. Her father was in the living room, watching a basketball match. She heard the loud, excited voice of a sports commentator.
She took a deep breath and went down the stairs. She looked towards the living room and clearly saw her parent. He sat back to her, sprawled on a green sofa - he held his legs on a table set with beer bottles. Two empty and two full. He drank a beer and cursed the other team under his nose. He had the hiccups.
She swore that she would never take it to her mouth. The bathroom door was squeaky when she opened it. She was scared and, looking over her shoulder, breathed a sigh of relief. He was sitting in his place, reaching for the next bottle.
She entered the room. As in other rooms, the furnishing of the bathroom was very poor and made up several of the most necessary elements – the toilet and the bath tub on the left. On the right there was a washbasin with a mirror, next to the cabinet in which a white medical kit was lying. She took her under her arm and carefully opened the door that didn't creak this time.
The joy didn't manage to nest in the girl's heart for a long time, quickly turning into a growing fear. He followed her in a wobbly step. She escaped to the stairs, terrified, but was too slow. He caught her awkwardly by the shoulder and jerked her. The girl rolled gently backwards, but quickly got her balance back, pushing her father awkwardly away. She was already at the top and he didn't manage to catch her again. She ran quickly into the room and closed the door blusteringly. They couldn't lock them; father had disassembled the lock.
Ian sat on the bed and she sat down next to him as soon as possible. At the sight of a richly bleeding arm, she felt dizzy. For the last time she tried to convince him to visit the hospital. He replied briefly, concisely:
“I can’t.”
She resigned, so she disinfected the wound, slowly cleaning it out of glass particles. She poured oxidized water over the wounds and bandaged them as gently as she could.
“Done.”
He lay on the bed with relief, looking at the watch standing on the bedside table from the angle of his eye. In an hour the classes started. For known reasons, they had to hang breakfast up that day.