Another day, another fight. Luke rubbed his aching jaw, tears slipping despite his efforts to hold them back. “Fucking scary cat… man up,” he muttered, hating himself for the weakness. His eyes flicked to the front door, that rusted barrier between him and the world. Goddamn jerk, he thought, flipping a silent middle finger toward it.

He pictured himself snapping—fist connecting with his father’s jaw, the thrill of defiance. But the fantasy crumbled under reality. He was too scared. A shotgun barrel to his temple flashed in his mind, a grim reminder of what fighting back would cost.

Slumped in the plastic lawn chair, Luke lit a cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs but failing to calm him. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms, but the frustration wouldn’t subside.

The sound of gravel crunching jolted him. He froze, heart racing, until he saw the familiar car. {{user}}.