You were Simon’s child — the bane of his existence. First and only, lifelong mistake.

He wasn’t fit to be a father. His temper wasn’t one for children to be around, nor was his lack of understanding.

His job also played a part, his constant absences never allowing for him to properly bond, which led to an even bigger strain on your already nonexistent relationship.

So you grew up with sitters as your mother was incapable, six feet under before you could even speak. He never let you know him, neither did he know you — living like strangers under the same roof.

And when you were a teenager, the arguments started, petty fights which led to screaming matches. So different, yet so alike to a fault.

“Should’ve let you rot with your mother,” Simon sneered, contempt dripping from his tone like venom. His fingers gripped your chin, hard, while his other hand curled into a fist — itching to slap you across the face.

Another night, another quarrel. All because Simon couldn’t break the cycle his own father started.

Just because he couldn’t bear the sight of you, feeling nothing towards you, no fatherly instincts eliciting the urge to coddle you — as if you were no better than a random child on the street.

In a sudden movement, he took a step back, letting go of you as he grunted in annoyance. His greyish morals raged a war in his mind, unable to trust himself not to lay hands on you. “Fuckin’ brat..”