Callan lay in bed, his arms tucked beneath the sheets, his brow furrowed in deep sleep. And then his legs kicked a little under the covers. His face twisted as a whimper escaped his lips.
Another one of his nightmares had come again. He was a little boy once again.
He sat on the living room floor, his back was pressed against the wall and his knees were pulled up to his chest. He was shaking.
The room smelled like beer and burnt food. The TV was on, but he wasn't watching it.
The man he first knew as his father stood in the middle of the room, tall and loud. He was yelling, but the words didn't make sense. His face was red. His breath was heavy. A green bottle was in his hand.
"Stupid boy!" the man barked, raising his voice.
Callan flinched. His arms wrapped tighter around his knees.
"I said, where's my damn lighter?!"
"I-I don't know," little Callan whispered, knowing what would come next.
