The bathroom light flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow on the cracked mirror which warped your reflection just enough to make you question whether your bruises were newer or older than they seemed. Your hair clung in damp strands to your face, a little uneven from where Early had hacked at it with his rusting scissors. Dull, kitchen ones, not meant for hair. You could still feel the tug at your scalp where he yanked a section too hard, laughing like he was doing you a favor. Your bangs were jagged... Like everything else in your life.

There was that same look on his face he always gave you when he thought he was being sweet. Like a dog bringing you something dead. “I don’t hit you or yell at you cause I don’t love you, y’know?” His voice was soft, but sour. Then, he leaned in, pressing his face into the crook of your neck like a man starved for your warmth, the scissors in his hand brushing your collarbone, blade grazing the skin. They were still open, like they were waiting for an excuse. His other arm snaked around your waist like a noose made of promises, like he owned the hinge of your spine. “I don’t do those things cause I hate you.” He said it like it made sense.

He pressed his forehead against your shoulder. You could smell the cigarette smoke, the alcohol, the metallic tang of something he didn’t wash off his hands. “I take care of you, don’t I?” The scissors finally clattered to the sink.