I sit on my bed, staring at the cracking and crumbling walls that surround me. The cream paint is dull; the opposite of the sharp pain in my chest, where my lungs feel as if they're about to collapse. He's screaming again. I'm not sure who he's yelling at, but it's probably someone on the phone. Things are never good when he's angry. 'He' is me and Thomas's foster father. We moved in with him about two months ago, after our parents died in a car accident while Thomas and I were at home with a babysitter. They were hit by a drunk driver.

"No! You tell them that I need the money now!" he screams. I glance at the corner of the sparsely filled room where the dusty alarm clock sits on a wooden table. 12:23 a.m., it reads. "Kinsey! Come here!" our foster father calls. His words seem normal, kind even, but his tone is what frightens me. I hear a door slam shut from somewhere across the tiny house, and the man's hollers begin again. I stand from the bed, my frail legs shaking on the frigid wooden floor.

Silently shutting my bedroom door behind me, I enter the living room of the messy house. The man never cleans-- that's our job.

"Yes?" I ask, my voice hushed in order to not provoke the monster. He doesn't respond; instead he yells at the small boy in front of him. It's my seven-year-old brother, Thomas. His bright blue eyes are wide and terrified, and pieces of his chocolate brown hair fall into his face. I see the tears in his eyes. The boy is about to burst. And he does as soon as our foster father first lays his hand across his cheek. I know it stings. I've been at the brunt of the man's anger too many times before. But that doesn't make it any easier to watch. No, not one bit. Silent tears escape Thomas, but he doesn't dare to move. A prominent red mark slowly appears in the shape of the man's hand.

"Don't you cry, boy! You get what you deserve!" the man screeches at Thomas. Naturally, this only causes the boy to shed a few extra tears as a nearly silent whimper comes from his mouth. It's quiet, but not quiet enough. At the sound of this the man shoves Thomas against the front door, the back of the tiny boy's head hitting the handle.

"Leave him alone." My voice is weak, defeated. I'm a little girl; how could I possibly stand up to him? But I have to, I tell myself. I have to for Thomas! "Leave him alone!" I repeat, stronger this time.

The man turns to me menacingly. His jaw is tightly clenched, his teeth gritted together‒ it's an unappealing look for his scruffy and old-looking face. "I told you to stay out of our business, Kinsey," he says lowly. He takes intimidatingly deliberate steps to face me. "Thomas needs to learn!"

"Putting your hands on a child is no way to teach them anything!" I cry. I take slow steps backwards, now afraid of what I've done. I quickly glance away from the man that towers above me and look over at my little brother. He lays on the ground against the door as quick, salty tears streak down his face, his bottom lip trembling.

He chuckles, the sound indicating nothing but psychotic anger. "And what are you going to do?" he growls, his voice deep and gritty.

"I'll-" I stutter. What am I going to do? What had I planned to do when I stood up the moment the evil man first hit Thomas? "I'll call the cops!" I insist, as I back further into the hall before taking off into a sprint down the rough wood. I run for the phone in his bedroom, as I have no hope of getting the one clenched in a fist between his calloused fingers. I hear his heavy footsteps that practically shake the entire house as he barrels towards me. I know he's catching up.

The man's fingers soon grasp my lemon blonde hair and I tumble to the ground. I feel the uneven wood scrape my knee and the familiar smell of blood seeps into my nose as my ankle twists into an uncomfortable contortion. But I have to keep going, so despite the pain I pick myself up from the ground and continue to run. I notice the man hunched over behind me with his hands on his knees, already winded from the chase.

911. 911. This is the mantra that plays over and over again in my mind. I search for the phone beneath the mountain of papers and junk scattered across his room, a place we're typically not allowed in. I find the device. 911. 911. I dial the numbers as I run to the bathroom and hurriedly fumble with the lock on the door before the man can get to me. A woman quickly answers the phone and I hold the device to my ear, listening to the normal spiel relayed when calling the number. "My name's Kinsey. I'm eleven," I cry hysterically.

"Okay, Kinsey. Stay calm, sweetheart," the woman soothes. "What's going on?"

"Our foster father hit my little brother, Thomas. He was mad and hit him and I don't know if he's okay!" A pounding commences on the weak door in front of me, and I'm terrified that it won't hold up to the man's brute force. "He's going to get me!" I screech as tears cloud my vision. My limbs shake like leaves during a windy autumn storm.

"It's going to be okay, Kinsey. We'll be there soon, but I just need you to tell me where you are," the woman states. Her voice is calm, despite the situation. I begin to relay the address as I sob. The pounding becomes faster and more arduous, and it looks as if the door is bending beneath the angry fists that beat against it. It'll break soon, I know it will.

"Please hurry!" I squeal frantically. "Help me!" The woman mutters several things, most of which I don't comprehend as I struggle to keep the phone to my ear. My eyes stay glued onto the door. Then the lock finally gives up on protecting me, and the it bursts open. There stands the man, his face flushed red with anger. I release an ear-piercing scream that echoes against the four walls that surround the two of us.

Then it all happens at once, everything occurring so quickly. I hear doors erupt from all over the house as yells play out and sirens bellow from outside the drywall.

"Police!" I hear men shout, as a few dressed in all black enter. My foster father is soon tackled to the ground. But that's all I see as I tuck my face into my knees and I pull my legs up to my chest, my back pressed against the wall. I don't want to watch. I can't.

I don't focus on the chaos that ensues around me, and the voices soon become distant. I do as my mother always used to tell me: I think about a time when I was happy. The memory that comes to mind seems so distant. It was when I was at the park with Mommy, Daddy, and little Thomas, and we were feeding the ducks that swam in the large murky pond. This seems like so long ago, when in reality it occurred just this past July.

"Kinsey!" I hear someone call, breaking me away from my trance. My eyes scan my surroundings frantically. I'm sitting in the bathroom, in the dirty ceramic tub. The room is empty now besides me and yet another man, but this one wears a suit. "Kinsey, my name is Anthony. I'm here to help you, okay?"

He crouches beside the tub and holds his hand out to me. A gentle smile rests on his lips, seemingly safe. I place my palm in his, and he helps me up. "Where's my brother?" I mutter.

"He's being checked by some paramedics. You can see him in just a minute," he replies. I nod and follow him through the hallways of the house. "But first we've got to get that knee of yours looked at."

The house swarms with police officers and paramedics, and red and blue lights flash from outside through the closed blinds. A paramedic soon comes up to us and, as she cleans my knee of blood, asks me a few questions to which I lie in response. In truth, my leg throbs with shockwaves of pain sent from my ankle, but I don't tell the woman this because I only want to see Thomas and assure myself that he's okay.

Only a minute later, as Anthony and I exit the house, I see Thomas sitting on a gurney beside an ambulance. A few paramedics stand beside him. "Thomas!" I call and escape from Anthony's side to check on him. "Are you okay?" The boy still cries but nods anyway.

"They're going to take him to the hospital to run a few tests, but we'll follow right behind them," Anthony explains. I stare up at him hesitantly. I don't want to leave Thomas. "We'll be right behind them, Kinsey. I promise we won't separate you," he reassures me, and I skeptically nod. Paramedics begin to load Thomas and the gurney that he sits on into the ambulance, and Anthony beckons for me to follow him to a tiny black car. I climb into the back seat as the police cars vacate the area surrounding that wretched house, as well as the ambulance and the car that I sit in. But I don't think about my surroundings. All I can think about now is that we're out. We escaped. We've been freed.