When the storm comes, my compass always points to trouble.

I curl myself small as if I were still a little child trying to hide under the bed. But I’m a teen now, meant to be able to cope, to deal with this stuff. To take control.

My little brother looks at me all wide brown eyes and silently he takes my hand. I ruffle his hair and whisper so quietly to him “It will be ok”. He smiles sadly because we both know it’s a lie.

In anger Dad calls my name and the shouting begins.