The Boyfriend Tag

Question 3

❤️I'm going to take a moment to say RIP Phillip Hughes, an amazing cricketer, who recently died doing what he loves. He will be remembered as the legendary 25 year old he was ❤️ ----

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Favourite feature of each other?
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"I really love your hair" he commented, twisting a strand of my hair.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I think Ariel would have been a more fitting name for you"

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"Could you stop being such a bitch?" I cringed at the sound of smashing glass in the living room. You'd expect me to go an check on what has happened, but this situation was too common. If I intervened, my parents would just turn on me and start yelling at me for being a useless 19 year old. They kind of were better off if I just left them alone.

I sighed when I heard the slamming doors, meaning they had given up the fight and left to go to their separate room. I waited a while longer, and when I didn't hear anymore yelling and cussing, I jumped out of bed and quietly left my room. From what I could see in the barely lit corridor, there was nobody there.

I was hungry, and in need of a midnight snack.

Creeping down the corridor, I was afraid that the wooden floorboards would betray me. My heart thudded at the slightest creak, and my body would freeze up.

As I reached the kitchen, I slowly twisted the door handle and pushed the door open. The room was dark, and for a second, my hand patted around blindly on the wall, trying to locate the light switch. When I finally felt it, I flicked it on.

"What are you doing here?" My Dad's voice grumbled, his words barely distinguishable. Gulping inaudibly, I watched as he took another drink from his beer bottle. His bloodshot eyes then looked at me with a menacing glare.

"What are you doing here?" He repeated more firmly, over enunciating each word as though I was a child. I shook my head.

"I needed some water" My voice wobbled as I spoke, my throat feeling as though it was closing up. The way his eyes pierced into mine, I felt as though he could hear how fast my heart was thudding, as though he was challenging me to make a move.

My dad nodded. I took a careful step into the kitchen, keeping my eyes on my dad. Scurrying to the sink, I quickly grabbed the first cup I saw and filled it up with water. The cooling liquid cleared my clogged up throat. I felt like my airways were open again. I could feel his gaze on my back even as I kept drinking my water. The cup shook in my grip as I placed it back down. Before leaving, I glanced back at my dad.

"Get out!" He suddenly shouted when he noticed I had overstayed my welcome. He threw his bottle at me angrily. I merely ducked out of the way before running back to my room. On the way, I could still here my dad's mumbling.

"Can't even drink in peace"

It was when I rushed into my room that the hot tears poured down my face. I muffled the cries in a pillow, scared that he'd hear me from downstairs. When I pulled back from the pillow for some air, I was shocked to see blood drenching the white fabric. My fingers touched my forehead, and almost immediately they were painted blood red. Standing up, I walked over to my mirror and I nearly cried when I saw the gash on my forehead.

What shocked me more was how numb I'd become to the physical pain. Looking at my reflection, I realised that the excruciating throbbing in my head was from the gash, not from the emotional pain of having your dad throw bottles at you.