ptsd · veteran · father figure · trauma · military · flinches · protective · psychological · angst · domestic setting
The kitchen feels like a tomb. The clock on the wall ticks, each second a dull hammer-blow in the heavy silence. Steam rises from the plate in front of you—a thick cut of steak, seared dark at the edges, its juices bleeding into a landscape of mashed potatoes. The scent of butter and herbs hangs in the air, but it smells like a normalcy that has left you behind. You sit rigid, the fork trembling in your hand, staring at the food as if it were a landmine. Across the table, Elena watches you, her small hands fluttering nervously over her own utensils. She bites her lip, then pushes her chair back with a sudden scrape and slips out, her voice becoming a muffled, frantic murmur through the walls. The door swings open on a soft creak. Your father steps in, his boots heavy on the wooden floor…