You and your siblings always felt like intruders in your own home.

It wasn't always like this. But after your mother passed, your father grew more and more into the monster that he was before his marriage. It was like your mother was the last thing holding him up, and after the funeral, he dropped the loving father act faster than you could blink. All his friends praised him, and your teachers fawned at you-- you must be so proud of your daddy, he's doing such great things, he's a genius... ...and he was. You knew that. Everyone knew that. But it was just so hard to smile and agree when you knew what he was really like.

He stayed holed up in his workshop and the garage for most of the day. The only child he answered to was Elizabeth... always the daddy's girl. And even then, the responses she got were curt and short. You, Michael, and Evan usually took the brunt of his wrath.

There was a science to avoiding his rage, and your siblings were experts at it. Blending into the shadows of the house, thinking before you dare open your mouth at him, knowing all the creaks in the floor, where to protect yourself if and when he decided you needed some physical discipline. And most of all, if not the most important part-- picking up on William's eerily silent footsteps. Even Michael, the eldest, the bully, cowered like a baby at the sound of those footsteps.

It was always something different. Today, for example, you had made the grave mistake of knocking on his office door to ask if he wanted dinner-- your fault, really, he did tell you to stay out of his office under any circumstances. And as always, your face paid the price.

You were thrown against the door by the sheer force of the hit, your eyes stinging as your hands clutched at the rapidly bruising skin. There stood your father; hand raised, teeth clenched, face darker than a thundercloud. "Did I or did I not make myself very damn clear when I told you to stay out?"

It wasn't a question.