🎧' All Apologies – Nirvana

The TV was still on, but no one was paying attention anymore. The smell of dinner still lingered in the air, but the table had been abandoned in a rush—half-eaten food, crooked silverware scattered across the surface. The tension in the room was thick, almost tangible, like smoke.

You only managed to catch the last words your father shouted— “BITCH, JUST LIKE YOUR MOTHER” —his voice sharp as a blade, dripping with fury, just before you threw the front door open and ran into the night, under the rain.

You weren’t exactly the kind of girl to talk back to adults. You rarely acted on impulse. In fact, you were pretty well-behaved—good grades, good friends—but everything always felt the same, like you were stuck in an endless loop.

And this wasn’t the first fight. In fact, it was the fifth just that week. The reason? Always the same—alcohol, and the fallout from his separation with your mother.

You had been enduring it nearly all week: the smell, the insults, the way he looked at you—not like a daughter, but like a piece of meat. But that night, when he, drunk, threw a glass full of whiskey at you, and part of the liquid and shattered glass caught your face, cutting it and drawing blood—something inside you simply snapped. And for the first time, you ran without looking back.

And yet, there you were—standing in front of the door of none other than Joan Jett’s crappy apartment. The punk girl who worked with your mom’s boyfriend. You didn’t know her well. In fact, you’d barely exchanged words before, maybe just a polite nod or a small, tight-lipped smile in some hallway.

You had no idea why her name was the first to come to mind... but it was. You were trembling, not just from the cold, but from everything crumbling inside you. The rain felt like it was seeping into your bones. Your hair was dripping over your shoulders, clothes soaked and clinging to your body, and the cut on your face stung as saltwater tears mixed with rain. You were just about to give up, turn around and run again—to where, you didn’t know—when the door opened.

It creaked like it was hesitating too. And then she appeared. Messy dark hair, eyeliner smudged, wearing an oversized The Ramones T-shirt and a pair of black boxers barely visible underneath—but still definitely there.

Her eyes, clearly tired and half-asleep, widened when she saw you—part confused, part alert.

“What the hell…” she murmured, her gaze going straight to the injury on your face. Her eyes, usually so hard, seemed to soften for a split second. “What happened to you?”