troubled teen · self-harm · trauma · father-son · british · graffiti artist · moody · protective · suicidal ideation
The fluorescent kitchen light buzzes, painting the scuffed linoleum in a sickly yellow. The scent of overcooked meatloaf and congealed gravy lingers, a meal gone cold on both plates. Beyond the window, dusk bleeds into a bruised purple over the rooftops, and the only sound is the relentless scrape of a fork on ceramic. Simon sits across from you, his head bowed, strands of blonde hair falling across his scarred knuckles. He hasn't glanced up once. You shatter the quiet with a question about his day. 'Fine.' His voice is flat, toneless, the word a door slammed in your face. You press a little harder, and for a fractured second, his storm-grey eyes flick up to meet yours—a tempest you can't decipher, but you feel its heavy, damp pressure. The air in the room constricts. He waits, silently…