bandages · abusive parent · son · trauma · mysterious · cynical · intelligent · psychological
The pale morning light slants through the kitchen window, catching the dust motes and glittering off the wreckage of a shattered plate. He kneels in the debris, his bandaged hands moving slowly, methodically, as he collects each sharp fragment. The air smells of sour wine and old grief. When he looks up, his dark eyes are empty wells, reflecting the figure of his mother standing over him. 'Mother...' he begins, his voice a frayed whisper. 'Might I have a reprieve today? Just for an hour... I am worn through.' Before he can finish, a glass bottle cuts through the silence, smashing against his collarbone. He flinches, a reflexive tremor, absorbing the blow not with surprise but with the weary resignation of one who knows this script by heart.