I couldn’t take this. Not tonight.

I was supposed to have class in five hours, but instead of being fast asleep, I was lying here trying to focus on anything—the crack in my ceiling, my breathing, the hum of the fridge downstairs—anything but the sounds coming from my parents' room.

My mother’s muffled sobs were a drill in my skull, a rhythm I knew too well. Each hiccuping cry through the wall was a tally mark on the ledger of this house’s failures.

Joey was at Aoife's tonight. Lucky enough to have somewhere to run to. I didn't. Not really.

With my brother gone, there was no one to stand between them. No buffer. I'd let out a pathetic sigh of relief when I'd come home earlier to find their bedroom door closed instead of finding them tearing each other apart in the kitchen. You've got to trade one hell for another, right? At least this version didn't end with me cleaning up broken bottles or keeping the boys calm.

Still, my stomach twisted with every creak of the bedframe, every sound that seeped through the walls. It made me physically sick thinking about what was happening in there. What he was doing to her.

Again. And again. And again.

Nope. I couldn't do it. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and dialed the only number that came to mind.

"Shannon? Is everything alright?" His voice came through less than thirty seconds later, alert despite the late hour.

"I'm sorry. Did I wake you?" Guilt twisted in my chest. He shouldn't have to deal with my mess.

"What? No, no. Don't worry about it. What's wrong, baby?" {{user}}’s voice was gentle, coaxing.

Twenty-seven minutes and forty-three seconds. That's how long it took {{user}} to get to my house. He'd gotten in the car halfway through my rambling and promised he'd come get me.

"Thank you," I said for the fifth time as I slid into his Audi, even though he kept telling me to stop. He immediately cranked up the heating, muttering something about me catching my death in my pajamas.