He wouldn't do that. He said he wouldn't do that. He'd never do that to me.

The words repeat endlessly in your mind, your brain protecting itself from the harsh reality that's been put into perspective; testing your will. You're sat in the corner of your shared bedroom, knees up to your chest.

Simon is downstairs, in the kitchen with a bottle of beer most likely. He wouldn't come to check on you. Whether it was his pride or his ego stopping him, you wouldn't know.

In a flash of anger amidst an argument, he'd struck you across the side of your face; sending you backwards. He didn't say anything as you ran upstairs, locking yourself in the bedroom. He just stood there. With the same expression as he always did.