Lucas came over at three with fettuccine and half a coffee cake. By four they were sitting on the couch watching The Shining.

"Oof!" Lucas grunted as Annabelle's dog, Marty, jumped up into him.

"Marty," Annabelle scolded, but when the dog looked at them with its old puppy eyes, Lucas groaned dramatically and let the Golden Retriever curl up on him.

"I remember when he was just a puppy," Lucas half laughed and half grunted.

"It was only two years ago."

"Yeah but he sprouted up real fast."

"So did you," she reminded him.

Lucas was nineteen, just out of high school; shaggy blond hair, ocean blue eyes, muscular and six-foot-two. All the girls drooled over him. But Annabelle could remember when he was thin, wiry and held as many muscles as a bowl of spaghetti; when he was four-foot-three and wearing Spiderman pjs to bed but only crawling under the covers after charging at his big sister for a bone-crushing hug around the waist.

Back before life happened.

"I don't get it, Annie, the guy's name isn't even Johnny." Lucas rolled his eyes at the film.

"You know you love this movie,"

"Do not, you do. I'd much prefer Friday the 13th."

"Why don't we watch that next?"

"You mean that?"

"Sure,"

"Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No,"

"What? Oh, no, I meant what is it with the film industry and freezing Jacks to desth."

Annabelle burst out laughing and got ready to slide in Friday the 13th. She only owned it because she knew it was Lucas's favorite. She was only watching it for Lucas--he needed someone right now.

At seven she called for a pizza, and only thirty minutes into the movie Lucas was already clutching the blankets up to his chin.

Some things never change, she smiled.

Halfway through the sequel, Lucas had fallen asleep. Already Annabelle could tell that it wasn't a peaceful sleep--the movie probably hadn't helped the dream form peacefully, but she knew that wasn't the cause.

Sure enough, when Lucas's eyes shot open minutes later, she saw pure terror--terror she had only seen twice before.

"Annie," he shrieked, not fully back yet.

"I'm here,"

"Annie?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Don't worry. He can't hurt us anymore."

"Annie," Lucas whispered. He was shaking like a leaf.

Annabelle placed a hand on his knee, trying to comfort him while thinking of what to say. Finally she just pulled him into a hug. She wasn't sure words were ever going to help--maybe nothing would help,certainly nothing could change it or fix it.

"How about I make some hot chocolate?" Annabelle asked, once her brother's breathing had evened out.

It was hard to remember he was nineteen now. He had once been a constantly bubbly little kid--he had had that innocence taken away far too early.

"Yeah sure," he nodded. She was at the kitchen doorway when he called her name.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you,"

Annabelle smiled. "No problem, Lukie."

When she was in the solitude of her kitchen, she took a shaky breath. She looked around; white tiled floors, white cabinets, nice sparkling granite countertops. An island, nice dishes, apploances as shiny as the day she purchased them. Even after five years it still seemed unbelievable that they belonged to her. There had been a time, not so long ago, where she hadn't had anything close to this.

She hadn't registered that her hands had slid her phone out of her pants' pocket, nor had she registered opening Twitter.

Hey Louis, it's me again. Yeah, I know, probably kinda weird. Honestly, I just need someone to talk to, whether they read it or not.
"Why not talk to your friends?" You're probably wondering. Well, answer to that is, I don't have time for friends. I have one, a girl called Ellis, that I go to college with, and I sometimes talk to this boy named Ethan, but in honestly I spoke to him originally because he works at the coffeehouse.

Explaining that one--I work one of the night shifts at the local coffeehouse. I also work the lunch rush at the local diner and the dinner rush at another diner outside of town. Did I mention I'm in college? Yup, senior year. I'm about to be an officially licensed physical therapist. At first I was majoring in psychology. I wanted to be a psychiatrist, but that one was crossed off the list when I couldn't find the words to comfort my brother during one of his first panic attacks.

That's why I'm messaging actually--my brother. Yeah, I know, you don't know him or me and you don't want our problems. That's fine. I understand. Perks of writing a celebrity who will never have the time to see the messages. ;)

See, my brother got addicted to cocoaine when he was sixteen, courtesy of a horrific high-school girlfriend. At seventeen he came to me and together we got him set up with some people who could help. It took two years, but he's clean now. He's nineteen, just graduated high school.

There's another reason drugs were in his radar--our father. Our father--if you want a long story, well, you've found one.

Dad was in the war when he met mom. They fell in love. They got married, had me several years later. Sounds nice, right? Romantic?

Not. The war messed him up. He didn't get treated. I grew up with a shell-shocked man for a father. (Seriously. When I was six, I remember him spinning me in the air, maybe dancing. That's the only thing I remember about him. Correction--the only good thing.)

Dad got hooked on alcohol and drugs. Mom got pregnant, had my brother, Lucas. I tried to play mommy, I suppose like most little girls do. I was pretty good at it, in my opinion; mom always said I was doing fine, great even.

I was around eight or nine when I started to see the bruises on mom's body--her arms, her neck, her face. I was even older, maybe ten or eleven, when I realized dad was hitting her. By then, drunk or high dad was a usual thing. Even Lucas knew not to bug him then. Around thirteen, dad started to hit me, too. When I was fifteen, my little brother found dad with me--in my bedroom. I don't remember a lot of it, thank God--what I do remember? Crying, screaming for help. But mom wasn't there to help me. Why? Because dad locked her in the closet. I could hear her begging with him to stop. Lucas started crying and called the police--afterwards, dad beat Lucas so bad that he bled and was black and blue for weeks. Him opening that bwdroom door--it was the first time I'd ever seen pure terror in his eyes.

The second time . . . The second time was when Lucas found me bleeding in the kitchen. Sure, maybe it had been fault. Maybe it was dumb. I was sixteen, should have known better than to cut my arm. But see, I only cut one arm--the other arm, the worse arm . . . That was dad's doing. When he found me he took the knife and . . . Well, you get the idea. After that . . . After that he put a gun to my head--to his head, back to mine. He was screaming and yelling and crying. He'd gone insane. Lucas got mom, and she came in just as the gun went off--I was never sure what happened that day. Mom told me dad shot it himself. Lucas pretended not to have seen it. I remember fainting and waking up in the hospital. Since then, it's come back to me in pieces. I'm not sure how, but I think I know one thing--I know that I shot the gun that killed my father. He dropped it, cursing and bleary-eyed. I picked it up, and he laughed. I pulled my finger back. Bang.

Life should have been easier then--no more rape, no more beatings, no more abuse. No more hurt. No more pain.

Wrong. Mom told us dad had always been on the edge--the war, the memories, caused a break in him. We never said it, but we knew it was always hard for us all, in our own ways. Mom because at one time she had loved him. Me because I bore scars that would bear a permanent reminder. Lucas because he never had a father, because the memories hurt him--because he hadn't protected us. But really, if not for Lucas, I wouldn't have fought to be brave. The cops wouldn't have come that day. Mom wouldn't have known to call an ambulance after I fainted. The neighbors wouldn't have known, afterwards. The teachers and the fire department and all the other people who learned of us.

Mom got treatment for domestic violence. Me for sexual abuse and for killing a man who called himself my father. Lucas refused. Lucas got depressed. Lucas got hooked on cocoaine and sex. It wasn't until mom's "dying wish" that he listened--get help. Mom had a heart attack two days later; she's in a senior's home now, for alzheimers.

Well see, Lucas is clean now. He drinks, more than he should, but he's okay. But he hooked up with his girlfriend almost six months ago before breaking it off. She's pregnant now. And he has nightmares about the times dad hurt me and mom, hurt him. Dad didn't hurt him as often as mom and I--I think that bothers him most, that he didn't help more, that dad took out anger on us more than him.

Lucas just woke up from a nightmare. It's hard seeing someone you love struggle. And yet . . . You know you have to push on, right?

Your song "Ex-Lovers" reminds me of that. The lyrics "we're ex-lovers now / I loved you more than you could ever know / my heart shattered on the floor, quicker than I knew it could / the day you decided to go / because we're ex-lovers now / and I see you everywhere I go / but I have to push on / even though you're gone / because one day I will get through this pain / and one day I will learn so many new things / there is still time for me / I will carry on despite the strain, on my heart / you'll always be a part, of me / I remember every day what we used to be / but I will carry on / though you're gone / and we're ex-lovers now."

Phew! Man, that's long! Sorry about that, I just really needed to get it off my chest before I go back to the movie marathon my brother and I are having. It's hard keeping everything inside--maybe that's why music seems to be an outlet for you. It's all out there, yet nobody knows the whole story--enough, but not all the details. Only those close know the details, or in my case, a complete stranger--a famous, sexy musician who will never read this. And for me that's okay--maybe it's what I need right now.

Thanks for letting me vent to your inbox. ;)

-Annabelle.