It takes me several glances to finally get a good look at him. He's massive.

He has to be at least seven feet tall. With such a bulked build, it's no wonder three men were not enough to restrain him. Were he lacks muscle and tissue fiber, he makes up for with thick and sturdy bone structures. Much like skin, I find out for a second time that they also bleed when punctured with the addition of stretching just like human flesh. How else could he cover his teeth with such menacing sneers? He directed those expressions to my father, who stood idly to the side. There's a gun strapped to his belt and a leather whip in his left hand. Both glisten in the gloomy afternoon light and I shiver. He uses the straps to spank Don's lower backbone, sending a loud, thunderous clap through the back yard to the loft.

I can tell he's working hard to hold in his ire. So much, I smell the blood leaking from his tongue the moment he bites down on it. He does not bother to hide the look of irritation from me as he was forced to stand still while being silently evil-eyed. He had done nothing wrong to earn that, but there's not much I can say to prevent it. As the echoes of G's previous lashing begin to dull out I can once again hear the buzz of my oxygen tank.

Our eyes linger on one another's. I feel a redness in my cheeks the moment he flashes a smirk at me. I'm embarrassed, his voice murmuring a "Hello Kitten" under his breath. Another crack bellows from the hide of Father's whip.I watch as Don struggles to keep his mouth shut, his sockets withering shut with a pained grunt.

He's clearly older than me. Oblivious, even. 

I take a minute to glance at the cracks bellow were his eyes used to be, pretending I can touch them by simply looking, and imagining them to be sharp. I imagine they cut my fingers, and then I imagine Don G being whipped to death for coming near me. I keep my fingers firmly wrapped around the handle of the oxygen tank hanging at my knees. I don't need another pair of eyes to know that Muffet is anxiously spectating from the kitchen window. I bet her eyes are sunken with fatigue, her brows furrowed in worry, and her heart must be beating quicker than mine.

I listen to my Father mutter something to Don while removing his restraints with a rusty knife from Grandpa's toolbox. Dirt and dust sift into the melting snow bellow their feet. "Don't think I've forgotten. You're going to make up for his absent compensations. A stand-in." Only an hour has passed, and the only thing I can think about it is what Father told Don... I'm not fond of his cruelness, or his lack of description, but "compensations"? "Stand in"? I wish to understand it all. When Don G arrived, he was screaming for someone, a man. Demanding to be told where he is. My heart sank upon the recollection of our first encounter. His words were hard and cooing, but deep down I could sense deafening fear. Of what? What could a beast of a monster such as him possibly have to fear? He could have murdered all of us humans on the spot, yet he didn't. Why? Was there something about us he wanted to see squirm? Or was he simply making a good decision with the kindness of his heart? I want to understand because it's been bothering me for the longest time. 

From time to time I take quick and subtle peeks out the window. My fingers stroke the thin curtains aside, and I spot The Don being given an ax. My father never trusts their kind with weapons unless he has some sort of confidence. He currently grins wide, whistling as Don's sleeves are rolled up higher, and he swings his ax at a tree we've been meaning to cut down.

He could have ended it there. He could have hacked my father's neck and watch his head roll into the flower bed. But he didn't. Begrudgingly, he didn't. 

He looks off to the distance as though searching, like a man on a mission. Perhaps he is? But for what? 

Whom is Don G looking for?