Falling Harder by W. H. Vega

that.
    “You know it’s
the truth, Paul,” I say, squaring off with him across the kitchen.
    “If I’m such an
asshole, why don’t you get out?” he asks, taking a step toward me.
    “And deprive you
of your tax credit? I don’t have the heart,” I say, rolling my eyes.
    “Where the hell
do you two keep sneaking off to?” Paul demands suddenly.
    Nadia’s voice is
small as she says, “I’m tutoring Trace in—”
    “Bullshit,” Paul
cuts her off. “You’re fucking aren’t you?”
    “No!” Nadia says
quickly.
    “That’s none of
your goddamn business, Paul,” I say.
    “The hell it
isn’t!” the man growls, “This is my house. You follow my rules. And I won’t
have any of you bumping uglies on my watch.”
    “No,” I say,
“You’re the only one allowed to get your rocks off around here at our expense,
right Paul?”
    “What the hell
does that mean?” he demands, “What are you—?”
    “We know what
you tried to do to Conway,” Nadia says quickly, “That’s not OK, Paul. There are
limits, you know.”
    “I didn’t do anything
to that little stick,” he says, waving off our accusations.
    “You were
probably too drunk to remember,” I say, “And besides, Garrick stopped you in
time. But if you try something like that again, I’ll be there to stand in your
way. And I’m not the type to take a beating, Paul.”
    The man’s eyes
swing from me to Nadia, resting on her beautiful, fearful face for a moment
longer than I’m OK with.
    “My house,” he
repeats, crossing to the fridge. “My rules. Deal with it.”
    Paul snatches a
beer out of the refrigerator and stalks back to the living room. I watch him
go, my hands balled into fists at my side. I feel Nadia’s hands on my
shoulders. They’re trembling. I turn to her, pulling her tightly against my
body.
    “Don’t worry,” I
say, smoothing down her smooth, dark hair, “Nothing’s going to happen to you
while I’m around. You’re safe with me. No one’s gonna hurt you on my watch,
Nadia. You have my word.”

 
    Eleven
    Nadia
    The Cold of Winter
     
    Winter falls
heavily upon our troubled home. With each passing day, we lose a little more
daylight, a little more freedom from the suffocating tension that’s simmering
within our little row house. The first symptoms of cabin fever start to make
themselves known as the six of us are forced to spend more and more time indoors.
    Chicago winters
are not for the faint of heart, and even though we’ve been through our fair
share, braving the outside world is a chore to be undertaken.
    For the first
few months of my stay with the Daniels, us foster kids had all but free reign.
Paul and Nancy were vaguely threatening, but not in the present tense. Sure,
they raised their drunken voices and hollered about noise and mess, but things
never really escalated from there.
    Paul’s advances
on Conway and subsequent beating of Garrick set a whole new precedent for
relations inside the home. Since that night, we’ve been on high alert for more
chaos, more violence. And though no one’s gotten hurt in the last few weeks,
the mood in the house has shifted for the worse.
    As temperamental
as our foster parents have always been, they’ve always shown something of a
united front. Paul and Nancy have their routines, just like anyone else. They
get home from work, sink down in front of the TV together, drink themselves
into oblivion, and repeat. But ever since Paul went after Conway, their
resigned bond has started to crack.
    Fights erupt
between them at the slightest provocation. More than once, a glass bottle has
gone sailing across the room, missing one or the other’s skull by mere inches.
I wouldn’t be too broken up if Paul or Nancy got a nice concussion, but there’s
the bigger picture to consider.
    The sun is
setting through the smudged windows of the bedroom I share with Conway when
another fight breaks out downstairs. My foster sister looks up nervously from
her magazine, pricking up