Is this what dying feels like? This...all surrounding pressure that's eating at you from all angles and threatens to consume you whole should you not fight back? ...No? Just a panic attack? Ok, cool.

You breathe heavily as your dad pats your back, arms circling around yourself in some pathetic attempt at comfort. Why was this so hard. It was a few words.

'A few words that could make him hate you.' That hateful voice no one likes pipes up, and you shove it down far, focusing on the now.

"Ok, deep breaths, kid. Don't want ya dyin' on me. So what's yer big scary secret, eh?" Stanley asks, after you've calmed slightly.

"I..." You start off weakly, but breathe in and stomach your way through the sentence. "I'm (fill this in)." As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel both liberated and suffocated. You look up to see his response and find him staring back at you, slightly consfused, but mostly sarcastic.

"Yeah, and there's forks in my kitchen." He says dryly, grinning.