My father had no tolerance for traitors. It was a lesson I learned without him having to teach me. And it's a memory that still haunts me every time I close my eyes.

The door is open.

I can see it at the top of the basement stairs, standing ajar. It's only a small gap, barely wide enough to let in a strip of light from the hallway outside. It filters through the opening and into our dingy bedroom, tiny specs dancing like fairy dust in the haze.

I frown at the door, confused.

It's not meant to be open when there are people over. It's not meant to be unlocked when there are people over. Not after the time I hurt my shoulder.

And there are people over tonight; I can hear the screams.

The screams from upstairs are louder than normal – a deafening, raspy sound that bounces through the house like a basketball. I wonder what game they must be playing, for it to be so loud.

Whatever game it is, I hope it ends soon. I hope the screams stop soon because Bailey is tired. So is Charlotte.

So am I.

Looking away from the door, I'm confused by the extra effort it takes as my head sits heavily on my shoulders. For some reason, moving has hurt more than normal over the last few days.

Turning my eyes to Bailey, I try to ignore the pain in my tummy and curl my lips into a smile.

Bailey sits on her ratty old mattress, looking small and scarily fragile. She stares back at me with wide, watery eyes, her hands held against her ears to try and block out the noise.

For some reason, Bailey's face looks wrong; it has for a while – too sharp, too thin. The shadows of the basement seep into her face now, hugging the hollows of her cheeks. It makes her eyes look odd, too big to fit the rest of her face.

Mr Bunny sits on her lap, offering what little comfort he has left to give. His one eye is falling off now, the black button hanging on by a single thread, and his brown fur is so tatty he's practically grey now.

Charlotte sits next to them both, curled up with Bailey on the mattress. Her bony arm is wrapped around the small girl's shoulders, her spindly fingers closer to claws.

Charlotte's face looks wrong, too. Her skin is too pale, her lips too thin, and her teeth look too big as she whispers something softly in Bailey's ear.

The screams don't stop.

"Aaarrgh! Aargh—AAARGHH!"

"Sweep," Bailey mumbles. She's been saying that word all night.

Bailey needs sleep.

But the screams are too loud and she doesn't have her music to mask them. She left it upstairs earlier, when we were allowed out of our room to watch cartoons on the magic box.

When it's only the man and our mummy's in the house, he doesn't care where we are as long as we're quiet and out of his way. We've gotten good at keeping quiet and out of his way.

We don't want to make him angry. The man is scary when he's angry. The man is scary when he's not angry.

The man is always scary.

"Aargh! AAARGH!"

"Sweep," Bailey mumbles again, her eyelids drooping low as she buries her face into the top of Mr Bunny's head.

Then, she starts to cry, sniffling as her shoulders shake under Charlotte's arm.

The sight breaks my heart.

"Door's open," I say, loud enough to gain Charlotte's attention.

She looks away from Bailey, her dull eyes finding mine. I can see the tears in them, the one's she's trying not to cry because – like me – she knows that crying never helps. Even so, it's clear to see that Charlotte's heart is breaking just like mine.

We hate it when Bailey cries.

But Charlotte hates the thought of me being in trouble, too.

"No," she whispers, her eyes widening when she realises my idea.

It's a simple idea, really.

Because the door is already open.

And I know where to find Bailey's music, the thing she needs to tune out the screams. The thing that will help her sleep.

It's a simple, stupid idea.

"No, sunshine," Charlotte tries again as I stand from my own mattress, the old springs clunking as I move.

But I'm already walking up the stairs, my knees aching with each step.

"I'll be fast," I whisper back to her, before slipping from the room and closing the door behind me.

Out in the hallway, the screams grow even louder as I creep along the wooden floorboards. I'm careful to avoid the heap of empty glass bottles, lined against the wall in a mixture of colours and sizes.

Once, when I was good, the man let me have a drink from one of those bottles. The drink was brown and burned my mouth. I didn't like it very much.

Other than the bottles, the hallway is empty. I can't see my mummy, nor Charlotte's or Bailey's. I can't see the man, either. All that's here is the bottles, the sound of the screams, and the smell of... something.

I'm not sure what.

It smells a bit like mummy's making something in the kitchen, but she's making it wrong.

That's happened before. She made something called chik-in once. She left it in that hot box too long, though, and it came out black and crunchy.

It was still good to eat, though. It only made me a little bit sick.

Maybe that's what I can smell now, too. Maybe mummy's making chik-in again.

The thought makes my empty tummy grumble and, feeling extra brave, I peek inside the kitchen on my way to the living room.

Charlotte and Bailey are hungry, too. Maybe I can bring back the music and some food.

But I see no cooked food in the kitchen. The hot box is empty and there's nothing on top of it, or on the side next to it.

I see nothing on the table in the middle of the room except the blue scissors and tinned beans that Charlotte and I left there earlier, the tin still closed after our failed attempt at stabbing it open.

Bailey had been complaining about the monster in her tummy again. The tin was all we could find to put it back to sleep but we couldn't get the beans out, so the monster is still awake.

We couldn't help her earlier but I can help her now. I can help her sleep.

Maybe mummy made some chik-in before and forgot to bring us some, I think to myself, looking around the kitchen one last time.

That's happened before, too.

With a sigh, I ignore the smell and creep further down the hallway towards the living room. The door is cracked open a little and, from here, I can hear that the screams are coming from inside.

The realisation makes my bravery crumble and I pause at the door, scared.

I'm scared because I know that this will be bad if I get caught. I'm not meant to be up here; I can't be seen.

The man will be angry if he sees me.

I can hear the voices coming from the living room now, too. Low, angry voices that bite at my ears and make my heart poorly.

"Now, let's try this again, shall we? Where the fuck is my money?"

I know that voice. That's his voice.

Through the crack in the door, I can just make out Bailey's music, sitting on the small table in front of the magic box. I can't see much else beyond that.

I should go back. I can't get the music with him in there. He'll see me.

...But that smell.

It's stronger here, coming from the living room as I take a small step closer to the door. And we're all so hungry.

Maybe mummy's in there, too. Maybe she's still eating...

I lift a bony hand to curl around the door handle, my clammy fingers leaving small marks on the metal. I don't dare breathe, in case he hears me standing here.

"I'm telling you, man! I'm telling you the truth! It wasn't me; I didn't take it! I would never betray you like tha—NO! No, no—AAAARGH!"

Maybe if mummy sees me, she'll remember to feed us, too.

There's a number of things that happen in the seconds that follow, as I carefully inch the door wider and peer through, looking for mummy.

There's a man tied to a chair, red water dripping down his face like bar-be-cue sauce.

There's the angry man, holding a metal wand that glows like magic.

There's the sound of sizzling flesh, like bay-con cooking in a pan of fatty grease.

There's something wet and warm, dripping down my leg...

Breaking free from my dream, I jolt awake with the feel of a thousand icy needles pricking at my skin.

Something close to dread courses through my veins like liquid nitrogen, chilling me from the bone outwards as I lie on my bed, frozen in fear. The way my heart speeds inside my chest only spreads the chill faster, freezing my lungs until I can barely suck in a breath.

Luckily, that also means the scream trapped inside my throat has no chance to escape. It sits there, solid as a block of ice that gradually melts away when my lungs begin to thaw.

The whole process feels like a lifetime, but can only last the sixty seconds it takes for reality to catch up with me.

It takes me a minute to realise where I am: safe inside my bedroom at the Crawford's house, at god-knows what time in the afternoon (or evening) on some random Tuesday in June.

It takes me a minute to realise that I'm not still in that house, watching that scene unfold like blurred snapshots on a telephoto camera lens.

The memory isn't one of my clearest, but there are just some things that you can't forget. For example, my father wielding a molten fire prod like some medieval executioner; or the sight of burning flesh, skin melting away like grilled cheese; or the smell.

Yeah, no. Shit like that sticks with you.

Swallowing down bile, I roll onto my side and try not to blow chunks all over my pillow. I can feel the nausea creeping up my oesophagus as I cover my mouth and fight back a gag. It's not pleasant.

Breathe it out. Just breathe it out.

Glancing at the alarm clock on my bedside cabinet, the glowing numbers inform me that it's already gone half past five. It seems I've been asleep for the best part of two hours.

After my talk with Owen in the kitchen, I decided to come upstairs and spend the afternoon curled up with a book. Without a shift at Wilson's to keep me occupied, I figured reading for a while would be as good of a distraction as any.

Obviously, that plan didn't quite pan out.

I must've fallen prey to my exhaustion somewhere around the third chapter, my heavy lids finally getting the better of me despite my attempts to ply myself with caffeine.

I hadn't wanted to sleep. It's much harder to keep your mind off the things you'd rather forget when your subconscious likes to regurgitate those unwanted memories like old home movies.

Lying on my side, I stare blankly at the numbers on my alarm clock, watching one minute roll into the next. I find myself silently counting the seconds between the minutes, anything to keep my mind from returning to that night.

Truthfully, I don't remember a whole lot else from that night, anyway. The details get... fuzzy after that. Thank fuck – because I don't think I'd want to remember my father's reaction, anyway. It can't have been good.

Why do I never do what I'm supposed to?

Staying down in the basement that night, staying away from the Coleman's, staying truthful with Stella and George... why do I have a lifelong habit of fucking things up?

It's like I just can't help myself.

It's like, no matter how many times I try and do the right thing, I always end up on the wrong side of every decision.

It's inevitable.

At precisely 17:52 PM, I hear the sound of the front door downstairs, shortly followed by George's cheerful holler.

"Mustard, I'm home!"

It's a thing he does whenever he gets home from work – a George thing. Apparently, he just likes to change things up a bit – including all 'condiment-related terms of endearment,' as he calls it.

I'm pretty sure he's used that one before, though. He's flagging.

"Soy sauce, I'm in the kitchen!" Stella sings back, jumping on the dad-joke-train with so much enthusiasm, I can practically hear the toot-toot of her conductor's whistle.

Despite everything, the sound of their corniness makes me smile.

"You pair are so lame, I think you just killed off some of my brain cells," Owen's voice calls out from somewhere below.

His words make my smile grow.

"Unlikely," I hear George reply, his amused tone laced with scepticism. "That would require you to actually have some to begin with, kid."

"George!" Stella responds immediately, her attempt at anger thwarted by an underlying affection she can't quite contain. "You cannot call our son stupid! What's the matter with you?"

"Don't worry, Stel!" Owen replies, his words the epitome of nonchalance as he says, "I'll just add it to the long list of discrepancies to report back to Karen and Noah."

I snort a laugh as I listen to the banter unfolding downstairs, successfully distracted by my family's shenanigans. My heart, frozen only moments before, now warms at the sound of the laughter floating up the stairs. It's a vibrant, happy sound.

These are the moments I want to hold on to. These are the memories I want to keep.

And so, with that in mind, I shake off the last of my funk and stand from the bed, picking my book up from where it's fallen on the floor and setting it down next to my alarm clock.

There's no point in me being up here, dwelling on the things I want to forget, when there are better memories to be made downstairs.

Besides, I have some apologies to make still – and a brother in need of a distraction, just like me.

I haven't forgotten what Owen told me about his mother earlier. He's not the sort to let on when he's upset, which means I'll need to be on high alert for even the slightest sign that he's struggling.

I've got a hug lined up if he needs one, even though I know he'll never ask.

If he needs one, he won't need to ask.

Out on the landing, I pause at the sound of voices coming from Bailey's room. Voices – plural.

There's only one person I know of that Bailey's willingly let inside her bedroom, besides Charlotte, and I can't help but jump to conclusions.

At first – and not without good reason, might I add – I think the second voice belongs to Alex. The thought makes me so mad that I almost barge straight in and drag their asses down to Stella and George, my relationship with my sister be damned. That is, until I recognise the boy's voice and my anger falters.

"Are you mad at me?" Oscar mumbles from inside Bailey's room, his voice low and worried.

Immediately, I feel like I'm eavesdropping, but I don't have the resistance to walk away when I hear Bailey's grumbled, grumpy reply of,

"Why would I be?"

I frown, confused, and wait for Oscar's response.

"Because it's my fault that you can't see your friend anymore," he replies, and the guilt in his voice sends a pang through my heart. "All of this is my fault. If I hadn't gone to see my dad..."

He trails off and doesn't finish, sounding upset.

I hold my breath and hope – pray – that Bailey doesn't say something insensitive to make him feel worse.

I mean, it is Bailey, after all.

"You're an idiot," she mutters, not off to a great start. But then she redeems herself by adding, "None of this is your fault, Oscar."

"Kind of is, though," he mutters back bitterly. "If I hadn't gone to see dad that day, things would be different. Karen wouldn't be here as much, and Noah wouldn't be here, at all. George and Stella wouldn't be so stressed, you would be able to see your friend, Owen would be able to bunk off school still, and Jade wouldn't be so tired all the time."

"You're an idiot," Bailey repeats, and I can practically hear her eye-roll. "I'm not mad at you. None of us are. And besides, you're not the reason Jade is so tired. I am. Stop trying to steal credit."

I wince and pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling guilty. They're both wrong. My fucked up brain is the only reason I'm so tired, it has nothing to do with either of them. I hadn't even realised they'd noticed, let alone blamed themselves for it.

Way to go, Jade...

I'm tempted to walk into Bailey's room and set the record straight, but I don't. The two of them are having a moment and it's sort of... not awful. I'm not about to barge in and ruin it.

"It just seems like you hate me more than usual..." Oscar admits, sounding unsure.

"Newsflash, Oscar: I hate everyone. It's sort of what I do," Bailey replies, her voice sounding bitter – moody and cold.

Doesn't it ever get tiring for her, being so angry all the time? Always being on the defensive. Never opening up. It must do, right?

"But I'm not mad, alright?" Bailey continues, still sounding annoyed despite her reassurance. "Now, piss off outta here, already."

Panicked, I scarper before I can be caught snooping, not wanting to be standing outside the door when Oscar emerges. Hurrying down the stairs, my feet are already on the bottom step by the time I hear Bailey's door creak open.

That was close...

Making my way into the kitchen, I'm greeted with the sight of Stella cooking dinner. Her back is to me as she hums happily, bending to retrieve a glass dish from the oven.

Owen sits at the table, still dressed in his school uniform as he scrolls through his phone with a bored expression. The uniform is an indicator that he likely hasn't mentioned anything to Stella about bunking off school today – or the reason for why he would want to.

I'll be sure to mention it to her at some point when he's not around – on his behalf – so she remembers to check in with him. She and George will feel awful if they remember too late and then realise they forgot.

When he notices me enter the kitchen, Owen gives me a small nod before returning his attention to his phone. I'm not sure if it's a nod of greeting, or one that's supposed to say, 'Hey, thanks for not dobbing me in for prematurely destroying my lungs.'

Either way, I'm sure to flick the back of his head as I pass him at the table. The action drags a smirk from him as he raises an eyebrow and mumbles the word, "bitch," under his breath. Luckily, it's too quiet for Stella to hear.

"Hey, I'm sorry about last night..." I say awkwardly as Stella places the oven dish down on the stove. She turns to look at me with an expression of surprise, prying off the oven gloves and hooking them over her shoulder.

With an unhappy sigh, Stella folds her arms and leans her hip against the counter, regarding me in that no-nonsense way of hers that always makes me sweat.

"I wish you'd told me you were going to be late home," Stella tells me.

I wince. "I know."

"We were really worried," she adds.

"I know. I'm sorry."

I feel awful – worse than awful. Making George and Stella worry is literally the last thing I want to do.

"And I wish you'd told me about Bailey's lie much sooner," Stella says, pursing her lips.

I wince again, because if only she knew. "I'm sorry."

I try not to crack under the pressure of Stella's gaze, fighting the urge to nervously bite my nails. Eventually, she sighs and her stern expression melts into one of exasperation.

"I get that you were trying to help, Jade. And I get that it was a really awful position that Bailey put you in. I just... Next time, please just tell us. It's our job to worry, not yours. Okay?"

I smile and nod and that, thankfully, seems to be the end of that.

Letting the subject drop entirely, Stella's expression brightens into a smile. Then, she motions to the piping-hot dish behind her. "Good. Now that that's out of the way... I'm making hunters chicken for dinner. George is just getting changed and then it'll be ready. Are you hungry?"

I glance at the dish on the stove and try to keep a neutral expression, even as my stomach gives a sickening squeeze. In the glass dish sits seven slabs of chicken breast, marinated in barbeque sauce, and covered in melted cheese.

Chicken, barbeque sauce, and melted cheese...

The sight of it turns my stomach, the nausea hitting me full-force in the gut.

I'm going to puke!

"Thanks, Stel, but I'm not feeling too great today," I say meekly, struggling to tear my eyes away from the dish. "I think I'll skip on dinner tonight."

"Are you sure?" Stella asks, her eyes worried. "You do look a bit pale, sweetie. Maybe you should get an early night? I think you're working too hard at that café."

"Yeah, you're right. I'm just going to go to bed," I reply, relieved that my face is only pale, and not some queasy shade of green. Then, as I turn to leave the room I add a (hopefully convincing), "Thanks for the offer, though. It looks delicious!"

And, with that – and a slightly perplexed glance from Owen – I all but race from the room.

Not two minutes later, I'm kneeling on the bathroom floor upstairs, emptying the entire contents of my stomach into the toilet.

Chicken.

Fucking chicken.

*********

Oof, so this one was a bit dark, eh? And took me about three years to write...

Poor Jade, am I right? And poor Owen. And poor Oscar. And poor... whelp, everyone, really. I swear I don't hate these characters, so I don't know why I have to make their lives all so difficult but there we have it. My bad.

I'm super excited for the next few chapters coming up! We've got Charlotte's visit fast approaching, and some other little bits and bobs that are gonna make shit really hit the fan. I can't wait, haha!

Oh - also - new cover! Well... new-ish cover. When the block hits, I like to pretend I'm creative in other ways, so I re-vamped the cover a bit. (Yes, I'm aware that the resolution is awful. It's blurry as heck and I will fix it at some point, I promise!)

Anyways, it appears to be far too late (early?) again on a night where I have work the next day... why do I do this to myself? I'll try to keep the next update to an actual Thursday next time! Until then, Happy Reading! x