"Keep quiet!" I told my brother.
The poor boy was shivering and his teeth were chattering from fear and cold.
"I'm sorry," he whimpered with his frail voice.
Our faces were stained from grime, dirt, blood and our tears. We soiled ourselves a few times already. The place stank from rotten rats and piss. Probably ours contributed to the stench.
The footsteps became louder. Pots and plates crashed to the floor as the man overturned the table. As he growled fiercely, he smashed another table.
"Come out you two rascals!" he roared.
"Why is father doing this?" asked my brother as he began to cry again.
I forced my tears down and gulped. "I don't know" was all that I could say.
"I know you're down there!" yelled our father as he purposely stamped his boots into the boarded floor. We could hear him coming nearer to the secret compartment where my brother and I were hiding.
"I'm coming...." he said mockingly. Terror gripped me, and I felt nauseated.
I didn't want to die yet. I didn't want to face my father as his hatred consumes him. I didn't want to see his axe come down on me as he swings it in his drunkenness. I didn't want to see my brother die at my father's hands.
"I'm gonna get you!"
Apprehension struck. I braced myself for death.
Then, the footsteps stopped. I peeped through the cracks of the door. My father propped up a chair, stood on it for a few moments, and kicked it off. His legs trashed around, then finally went limp.
I vomited. After the fit was over, I felt so relieved, I cried and cried. Then I laughed and laughed and cried some more.
"Hey, Julian...." I called my brother. "It's over...."
No response.
"Julian?"
I slowly put my face close to his nose - no breath.
"NO!!!! JULIAN!!!"
My brother had died - he died from terror....
