“Where’s my licorice!” our stepbrother yells from the kitchen.

No one answers. Me, my older sister and younger brother sit in the living room; his rage stalks towards us. “I want to know who stole my stuff! Tell me now or ALL of you get your asses kicked!” We already wear his hate. He’s successfully branded us with scars and bruises. Our fear belongs to him.

Our once happy home’s full plate glass windows? An Aquarium. Neighbors sealed their doors and curtains long ago. The sights and sounds torture them too.

His muscular construction-worker veins rise, exposing violent violet branches. “Someone speak!” he screams, kicking over the T.V. “Not me, Not me, Not me either” we respond.

His bullying glare lands on my overweight trembling sister. “You, you fat pig! You fat bitch! You stole from me! You cow! You’re crying because you did it! Here, I’ll give you something to cry about”!

As he grips her neck, tears of guilt bleed down my throat; a throat coated with artificial cherry and Red40.