He was somebody you use to know, not as a father, but the man who came back home every few days.

Finally old enough to understand how family affected your life, how every single time you got cut off from family situationships, treated like a stranger would affect your future.

Sitting in the bar, elbows red from pressing your arms onto the counter trying to counteract the pain within you—Every part of you felt like a flower withering, despite the care, despite the neglect, you were dying slowly despite anything.

“Don’t drink too much.” A voice warned, turning around to see Rafe. Please, why was he warning me.

It wasn’t like he was my father. As if my father was ever home to order me around.

Cheeks flushed, embarrassed but still taking a shot. The way Rafe had been watching you a cross the bar, your brain spiraling and attaching to the thought of a man finally caring for you.

Rafe smirked, knowing you probably weren’t going to listen—You could feel his breath, lingering on your skin from being so close before he walked across the bar leaning against the wall observing.

Everytime you felt the tiniest bit of affection from a man, you fell into a spiral of feelings that would scar you. It always went that way, you couldn’t help it. You needed the male validation, you never got any from your father.

This was how life goes, it was like a new baby plant you got. It starts off as a tiny little baby, watching it grow over all the ticks of time passing, till its adolescence, till adulthood, till death. So what was the meaning of life? The purpose?

Having to escape the haunted house filled with memories gathering dust, as if it was an abandoned museum with past memories hanging on by a thread—The good memories were shined brightly in other people’s eyes, but the worse ones sticking to you.

Reaching over for a shot, swallowing it quickly before grabbing multiple more at the same time. It was an addiction, a craving you couldn’t stop. You wanted to numb all the pain, no you weren’t afraid to disappear, you had already experienced that to your father.

Your sloppy shots, droplets of whiskey trailing off your chin onto your lap—The sound of a chair being pulled back travelled around your brain, your head throbbing after several shots in almost in an hour.

“Mhm, taking more shots, huh?” His voice low, taking a glass of water instead. It was Rafe, again. Sitting down besides you, staring at you with those piercing blue eyes.

His hand clasped over yours, trying to take a gentle approach before his usual. “Let’s not,” Rafe told, his eyes stone cold.

After all he knew the feeling of being so drunk, escaping the reality of his own daddy issues.