Their house sat on the edge of a sprawling forest, where the trees loomed tall and thick, their shadows stretching like fingers across the dirt roads.
The area was remote, the kind of place where you'd hear eerie howls late at night, never quite sure if they were wolves or just the wind playing tricks.
The locals called it Wolf Hollow, a name that carried both mystery and unease. For Liam, it was just house—a lonely, suffocating one.
As he pedaled up the gravel path, his body aching from the day's labor, the first thing he noticed was the sound.
Raised voices carried through the open windows, sharp and cutting against the still night air. He sighed, the familiar tension knotting in his chest.
"They're at it again," he muttered under his breath, parking his bike against the rickety wooden fence.
The argument grew louder as he approached the door. His uncle's deep, gruff voice boomed, laced with venom, while his aunt's softer, pleading tones barely rose above a whisper. Liam paused on the porch, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
Just go to your room. Pretend you didn't hear it.
But the sound of a crash stopped him cold. His heart sank as he pushed the door open. Inside, the scene was all too familiar: his uncle, red-faced and furious, stood over the kitchen table, the remnants of dinner scattered on the floor.
Plates and food lay in a mess at his feet, and Aunt Emma was frozen in place, her hands trembling as she clutched a dishrag.
"You call this dinner, you useless bitch?" Uncle Jake snarled, his voice dripping with contempt.
He kicked a fallen plate aside, his heavy boots scraping against the floor.
"Jake, please—" Emma started, her voice quivering.
"Shut your damn mouth!" he barked, slamming his fist on the table for emphasis before storming off. The stairs creaked under his weight as he stomped to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Liam stood in the doorway, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. His chest burned with anger, but he knew better than to interfere.
He looked over at the living room, where his cousin Robbie lounged on the couch, a smirk on his face as he scrolled through his phone.
A half-eaten burger sat on the coffee table, likely brought over by one of his rich friends. Robbie didn't even glance up at the chaos.
Liam's gaze shifted back to the kitchen, where his aunt was already kneeling on the floor, picking up the shattered pieces of a plate.
His stomach churned at the sight of her hunched form, her shoulders shaking as she tried to hold back tears.
"Aunt Emma," he said softly, stepping forward. He reached into his backpack and pulled out the items she'd sent him for. "Here. I got everything you asked for."
She didn't look up, just reached out and took the bag with a trembling hand. "Thank you, Liam," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He turned to leave, but then he heard it.
"Liam," she said, her voice cracking.
He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder. She was still kneeling, her face turned away. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, her words heavy with shame.
His heart twisted. "Aunt Emma, you don't have to—"
"Go," she interrupted, her voice sharp now. She sniffled and bent lower, scrubbing at the floor with frantic motions. "Just go, Liam. I'll take care of this."
He hesitated, the weight of unspoken words pressing on his chest. He wanted to tell her she didn't have to live like this, that she deserved better.
But the look on her face—the hollow, defeated expression—told him she wouldn't listen.
Liam swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "Okay," he muttered, backing away.
As he left the kitchen, her muffled sobs followed him, each one like a dagger in his chest. By the time he reached his small room, he was shaking with anger and helplessness.
He sank onto the creaky mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. I can't keep living like this, he thought bitterly.
One day, I'll get out of this house, this hellhole, and never look back.
But tonight, all he could do was bury his face in his hands and wait for the weight of exhaustion to drag him into sleep.