Another night, another damn fight with your father and all those horrible words being said to your face. He didn't remember that you were his daughter when he was yelling at you and telling you how much he hated you, how much you embarrassed him, how much you had ruined his life the day you were born. The reason? None, it was just anger, the fucked up anger issues.

Your mother divorced him because of this, because of how much he hurt her and made her feel small, helpless, insecure and God, you were thankful that this happened every day, the idea of him hurting your mother even more made your chest hurt — it was never physical, it didn't need to be, the screams and harsh words he would let out as if they were nothing were enough. But, he was still your father, the man who raised you, and no matter how much you ran away from it, you'd always be your father's daughter.

That was the problem. You'd turn off your empathy, explode, and tell people to their faces how much you despised them, only to feel guilty, like a monster, and your anger toward him would grow. If he wasn't a bad apple, you wouldn't be starting to rot inside, you wouldn't be starting to act like him. You'd do anything to avoid this, you'd do anything to keep your mother from looking at you and seeing the reflection of the man who hurt and disappointed her. No matter what it cost, you'd pay any price.

At first, you thought you didn't need to change as long as you could hide the rotten part of yourself, but you realized what you had to do when you met him, Gibsie, probably the man of your life; or rather, you already knew him, since elementary school when you were transferred from another city and he invited you to play with him on the swing because “your hair looked cool blowing in the wind” — was what he said with a crooked smile and his messy blond hair.

Ten years later and he was still in the same place, still there for you to keep you from drowning in your melancholy. The time you spent alone dealing with your own feelings was now the time you spent with him, at school, on the street, in the car, anywhere. He might not be your boyfriend in every word, but if someone raised their voice at you and he heard... First he'd put you behind him and then say every curse he could think of.

Maybe, he was saving you from your fate and holy shit, it scared the hell out of you to think that you might be to him at some point what your father was to your mother. It scared you, it scared you so much, especially when you were silently looking out his bedroom window — he went to your house and brought you to his after you called and he found out about your argument with your old man, Gibsie would never leave you alone. No longer being drowned and deceived, all because he came to you.

“Here,” he sat down beside you on the bed, placing a hot, steaming cup of tea in front of your eyes and a generous slice of apple pie. “It's the best apple pie in Ireland, I swear.” It was no surprise that he was saying this, the boy was the biggest fan of everything his mother cooked, especially the delicious apple pie. “If ya don't eat, I will.”

Gibsie paid attention to every little thing in your expression, he knew your thoughts and worries even when you weren't actually vocalizing them, he wished he could get you out of all this shit. “Come on,” he picked up the ceramic plate, cutting a piece of the pie with the fork. “Say "ahh".”