Your pulse throbbed at the base of your throat, the dirt from your nails spreading onto your palms as you dug them into your hands. Keep composed. Keep calm. That’s what you told yourself over and over as Simon yelled at you, his words sounding similar to your fathers.

The black sheep of the family. The one that always stood just out of frame of family photos. The one who was asked the least questions at Thanksgiving. You kept to yourself, stayed true to your morals, tried to get out of the hellhole you were supposed to call home when things got bad. You didn’t know why you were considered weird, why your perpetually chipped nails were made fun of, or why people looked at the scar on your cheek like you were some sort of monster.

You remembered how you got it, you didn’t want to, but the way the cruel, rubbery flesh reflected back at you in the mirror couldn’t stop you from remembering.

Your father’s face was flushed a pink, angry hue as he spewed drunken, volatile words. You weren’t even the one who drank the beer, of course you weren’t, you were 8. It was him, it always was. But he was too drunk and hostile to remember his own faults. “God, {{user}} what the hell is your problem? Why can’t you just fess up to stealing my shit?” Your father’s words weren’t anything new, the tone wasn’t, but the flying, chipped beer bottle certainly was. — Simon’s voice rang out, just as angry as your father’s. The mission had gone to shit, and it was your fault. He singled you out infront of everyone, and you just had to stand there and take it.

“Do you understand what you caused, {{user}}? You gave the enemy a clear indication of where we were. You fucked it up. We’re goddamn lucky that even half of us got out when we did.” Simon furrowed his brows behind the mask, his voice coming out in choppy outbursts. “I don’t want to you apologize. Don’t apologize if you decide to keep screwing up, apologize when you’re actually going to change and quit wasting my time.”